


The Night That Dawns

by Panda_Birds



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1900s AU, Friends to Lovers, John Watson - Freeform, John is a BAMF, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Not-so-graphic sex, References to dark magic, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Slow Burn, Snogging, Vampire Mycroft, Vampire Sherlock, Vampire!Lock, dark humour, slight angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:49:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 51,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1930791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Panda_Birds/pseuds/Panda_Birds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson stopped at a small town in the countryside on his way to a medical conference. Due to unforeseen events, he was forced to stay there for a while. Certain events led him to not only miss that conference but also have his life changed forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first ever fic, so if there are writing errors or if some parts (or even the whole thing, really) don't seem too good, please excuse! My thanks to all my friends, both on Tumblr and in real life, who have helped me with this! Please, please review!!
> 
> When I first posted this, the innkeeper of the inn where John stays in these first few chapters was Mrs.Hudson. I later changed this to Mrs.Turner, because I wanted Mrs.Hudson elsewhere in the later chapters. So if you're re-reading this, or if I've missed a few 'Mrs.Hudson's, I'm sorry for the confusion!

_A night, cold, and dark; with the wind howling and shrieking. A demented silence hangs over the area, broken only by the wind, the same which has haunted the are for nigh 600 years. A lonely traveler, seeking to flee 'ere his landlord finds he has no money to pay his lodgings, glances behind anxiously. A distinct rustle; a flash of movement, a muffled scream of terror that even the trees do not hear over the wailing of the wind._

The young children gasped. John smiled indulgently. He loved a good horror story, but only ones that made your blood go _cold_ , the ones that prickled at the back of your neck when you least expected it, and lingered in the back of your head and made you glance over your shoulder even when rationality told you you had no reason to. This one was good, but not _that_ good. The locals, he noticed, simply rolled their eyes at the tale or ignored it. One that was told quite often probably. These little towns and villages in the countryside often had old legends or folktales or horror stories that were passed down generation to generation until everyone in the place was sick of it and so it was told eagerly to every stranger who passed by.

He sighed, finishing off the rest of his drink and turning to the man who had recounted the tale, (Mike Stamford, wasn't it?) said, (because clearly he was meant to say something, and these people were nice, he wanted to be polite) "That was quite, umm.. interesting. Is that like a local legend or something? A sinister, mysterious, demonic beast that hunts people?"

Mike grinned. "Pretty much mate. This one's supposed to be nearly 600 years old. We've all been hearing stories along those lines since we were wee babies. I reckon most of us are pretty fed up with it by now, but it's interesting to city people like you who don't have the pleasure of urban legends." John chuckled.

"Yeah, because that's what we all need!" said a man from the corner darkly.

"Shut up Anderson, no one asked your opinion", retorted Mike, still grinning. "You wouldn't want to offend the demonic beast now, would you?" Everyone laughed. Anderson rolled his eyes, disgruntled, and turned back to the fire. The innkeeper, Mrs.Turner, tutted at them.

"Now, now, it won't do to talk about such things. In front of the children too!" John glanced at her.

"You don't surely believe the stories, Mrs. Turner?"

"All I know is that such talk is not proper for late-night conversation. And it's time the children were taken home to bed" She said, glaring at the parents of said children.

"And where would this creature live, exactly, so that we haven't found it in 600 years? The Holmes' mansion?"Anderson clearly wasn't done with the conversation.

"Oh lord, Anderson, it's only a story!!" said Mike, rolling his eyes in exasperation.

"The Holmes' Mansion?" asked John, puzzled.

"That old castle up on the hill. It's been there for centuries now, no one's ever been in in living memory."

"Why not?" John's interest was piqued. An old legend _and_ an old castle? This town sure had everything.

"Not quite sure mate. People have tried, sure, but no one's been able to go in. Those gates may be old but they are definitely sturdy."  
"And also", put in Anderson, who clearly was _not_ going to let this go, "the Holmes' mansion is around 600 years old. _And_ "- oh dear, he seemed quite giddy now-"there are legends revolving around the Holmes family too. "  
"Really?" asked John. He was interested, certainly, but also thinking that perhaps they'd all had a bit too much of Mrs. Turner's _excellent_ liquor and had best be getting to bed. "What legends?"  
Mike sighed. Perhaps he was thinking along the same lines as John. "Old Tiberinus Holmes was a Bishop a few towns away. He had two sons, and according to rumour, the younger one, he had a funny name too, can't quite remember, was a vampire."  
John was quite amused now actually.  
"So you see! Clearly the legends are about a murderous beast. What is a vampire if not that?"  
The police inspector of the village, Greg Lestrade, who had remained quiet so far, said quite irritably, "And what is your point with all this, Anderson? Are you trying to say the legends are fake, or that they're true?"  
"I just-well, I was simply-"  
"-Let's all get to bed, eh? It's late. Ta, Mrs. Turner. That was a lovely meal, as always." Lestrade nodded to the landlady and left. Everyone else followed him, Anderson looking disgruntled and irritated at being snubbed so efficiently.

John noticed, as he turned to go up to his rooms, a tall man, clothed entirely in black, the hood of his thick cloak over his head, who had remained silent throughout the evening. He must have been sitting in the corner, observing, unobserved. John only got a glimpse of his back, but thought there was something very strange about him. _Dr.Watson, you've had too much to eat, too much to drink, you're sleepy and you just spent the last half-hour discussing weird old legends revolving around vampires. Get a grip of yourself and get to bed_ he chided himself. He went up to his warm bed and fell asleep. He remembered nothing of the stranger until much, much later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is set in the early 1900s, at the start of the decade (or century, same thing in this case), actually, in a village in the English countryside. I chose this timeline for plot reasons. Please excuse any historical inaccuracies (except regarding speech and language, I chose to write with modern forms of speech). I also wish to add that this fic is NOT Britpicked, so please excuse any mistakes there as well. I have done my best! I hope you like it!!  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

John woke up early the next morning and went down for breakfast. As he ate, he realized that he had a while more before he had to get to the city for the medical conference. It was a nice town. Perhaps he’d stay awhile.

He put on his hat and coat and went outside. It was a nice day, warm and sunny but not too hot either. He hummed to himself, enjoying the weather, nodding in greeting at the villagers he passed by. As he walked, some of last night’s conversation flitted through his mind. _The Holmes’ Mansion_ he thought. That had been an interesting topic. He could vaguely see the large hill on which it stood. According to Mike, no one had been in for over 600 years. _The gates were too sturdy_ wasn’t that what he’d said? But was that the whole reason? Or was it because they were all too afraid to go in? But surely _someone_ over _600 years_ would have tried (and hopefully succeeded) in getting in?

He suddenly stopped his train of thought when he realized he was standing at the foot of the hill. _Well._ He thought. He was curious, certainly. But should he? It was a long way up, after all. And would the villagers be offended if he managed to break into their castle? Certainly half the appeal of it was that no one had been in for centuries, what would they say to strangers and visitors after him? _Yeah, we have an old creepy castle that no one’s been in in over 600 years. Well, except for this one guy who was a doctor or something and managed to break in once. Git._ Well, now he certainly sounded idiotic didn’t he? Assuming he _would_ be able to get in, firstly. And even if he did, well _obviously_ there would have been _someone_ who’d managed to get in _sometime._ Perhaps they just didn’t know about it, or perhaps they kept it quiet because it sounded better to say that no one had been in the castle since its previous inhabitants had died.

 _This is ridiculous._ He thought. He wanted to go up. He wanted to see the castle. So either he should climb up the time-worn footpath up the hill or just turn around and go away. Simple as that. What on _earth_ was he doing, wasting time just standing there? He sighed and started to make his way up.

It was….. well. _Huge, old,_ he really couldn’t think past those words or their various synonyms to describe the old castle that loomed above him. It had certainly been grand once. It still gave off an intimidating aura as it stood, sad and lonely and frankly _creepy_ he had to admit, atop the hill. Time, the elements, and neglect had worn away its splendour and now it stood desolate, half in ruins. He could see quite a bit of it beyond the gates, which, as Mike had said, still stood sturdy, guarding the castle from intrusion. He walked closer and cautiously reached out to them, worried their façade of strength and might would wither away at his touch and they’d crash to the ground. They didn’t. He pushed, hoping they’d open, only to find they wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard he tried. After a few minutes, exhausted from his efforts, he inspected them more closely. They were at least 7 feet tall, reaching high above his head, made of wood with iron handles and bolts. He didn’t know what wood- oak probably? Didn’t matter. What mattered was that they weren’t bolted from the outside. Which meant one or two or all of three things: They were extremely heavy, he was a sad weakling who couldn’t push open half-ruined gates, or they were bolted from the inside. He was rather inclined to think it was the third, which was the weirdest. Why would an uninhabited old mansion have gates bolted from the _inside?_ He didn’t know much about the place, or its history, apart from what Mike had said last night. It was probably nothing, but he was interested. He _really_ wanted to get in now. John had always liked old places. He had a fondness for that sort of thing; thinking about what had happened, who had lived there, what had been said, what had been done, the _history_ of it all. There was something about this place, he just _needed_ to find out.

John gulped. He’d managed to find a small hole in the outer wall, and had kicked it until his foot was sore and had then spotted an old wooden board lying around. He managed to widen the hole and had crawled in, and the castle that had managed to creep him out from half a mile away now sent a shiver down his spine as he stood directly in front of it. The Holmes’ Mansion. A strange phrase in a language he assumed was Latin and couldn’t quite read was etched over the large arch that framed the doorway. He was prickled by a strange sense of foreboding, of danger, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to just _get away._ ‘ _You’re being an old sap, Watson.’_ He chided himself. No one lived there, as far as he knew, nothing bad had happened there, (granted he didn’t know very much, or even anything at all, but given the topic of last night’s conversation if something weird or bad had happened in the Holmes’ Mansion, surely it would have come up?) so why the hell was he feeling like this? He turned and went back the way he came, determining to find out as much as he could about the family and the castle before coming there again. Because he was quite sure he’d be returning. His damn curiosity and eagerness for adventure would always get the better of him.

*****

“Thanks ever so much, Mrs.Turner. It’s lovely, as always.”

John was back at the inn. It was evening, and he was just finishing up his dinner. There weren’t that many people here tonight, he supposed that after one day he was an old face. “Umm.. Mrs.Turner? Could I ask you a few questions?”

She smiled. “What about dear?”

“Well, last night’s conversation.. made me.. curious.. Can you tell me everything you know about the Holmes’ Mansion, and the family themselves?”

“Well, I don’t know too much myself-“

“-Whatever you know.” He smiled eagerly, hoping to look simply like one who’d heard something odd and wanted to know more. _Which,_ he reasoned, was _exactly_ what had happened anyway. He’d decided to ask his landlady before anyone else because she was the type who loved a bit of gossip, never mind it being centuries old. If she didn’t know enough to satisfy his curiosity, he’d ask someone else, or check out the town’s library to see if it had any old documents.

“Well, Tiberinus Holmes was a Bishop of the area, he was part of a church a few towns away, it’s in ruins now, I hear. He had two sons, one of whom was rumoured to hold a position in the King’s court, and another who no one ever knew much of. His wife apparently died during the birth of the second, leaving him to raise the boys. The mansion was built by his grandfather, I think. Or maybe his father.” She paused here. “This much we know for sure, but there have been other stories-“

John smiled, thinking she’d probably tell without him pressing her. Indeed, she leaned forward slightly, (though there was no one to overhear them) and said in a low voice, “He was supposed to have just- _died._ All of a sudden. No one knows why, but then they were a private family. Not many records of their public services, other than him being a Bishop, of course. No old faded paintings of them, nothing. _But-“_

John knew she was getting to the pinnacle of her story now, “-According to old documents and legends we’ve found, he was closely acquainted with a woman from a neighbouring town, who was then thought to be a witch.”

John frowned. “A witch? But if people thought that then surely she would have been burned?”

“Well, there must have been advantages to being friends with a bishop, I imagine. Anyway, she supposedly turned his younger son into a vampire. Some people believe that maddened by this, he killed his father. Whatever happened, they all vanished without a trace within a year, and now, centuries later, we don’t know what happened.” She smiled and leaned back. “Well there you are dear, I hope you’re satisfied.”

He nodded and smiled. “Thanks very much, Mrs.Turner. That is certainly.. interesting.”

The old lady laughed. “Well I suppose we all seem like ignorant, superstitious fools to you, but we must have our little fun.”

John laughed as well. “Indeed, Mrs.Turner. When you have an old mysterious castle who’s family suddenly disappeared, you _must_ take advantage of it.” He stood, still grinning. “Well, after that bit of excitement I think I’ll be off to bed then. Goodnight!”

She waved a hand warmly. “Goodnight, love!”

John went up to his rooms, undressed, finished his toilet for the night and lay in bed. _‘So. A bishop, a son who had a high position in court, a witch, and a younger son who was turned into a vampire. How decidedly cliché._ He thought. _Interesting, though, how they all vanished. Perhaps something bad did happen._ He chuckled quietly to himself as his brain flooded him with possibilities. _Was it their ghosts and spirits I felt today?_ He mocked at himself. _Angered that no one had bothered to appease them, to find out what happened and lay their souls to rest?_ He shook his head slightly and turned over, pulling the blankets closer and tighter around him. _Pull yourself together, Doctor._ He’d go back tomorrow, he decided, and would actually enter the place itself this time.

*****

John had decided to check the old church records to see if he could find anything interesting. They'd said even less than Mrs. Turner (aside from all the rumours and stories, of course). Tiberinus Holmes was born in 1185, married Cathryn Bouchard in 1205, and had two sons, Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes (what _was_ it with medieval names?) and had died in 1230. That was all. John had finished breakfast, put on his hat and coat, and had gone out for a stroll, like yesterday. He'd been afraid the locals would stop him from going up to the castle, but they hadn't spared him a second glance. As he walked up the hill, he'd contemplated postponing this, or even simply not doing it at all, but his curiosity would never let him have peace, so he had to go in, and he needed to leave in a couple of days for the city to attend that conference, so it was now or never.

John stood before the menacing castle again. This time staring right at it and deciding he wouldn’t let its sinister look frighten him away, as it had evidently done countless others. He squared his shoulders and strode towards it, stopping in front of the great wooden doors. He stretched out a hand to then and pushed. He felt the door budge an inch and jumped in surprise. He’d been expecting them to be as unyielding as the gates outside. He pushed at them again, firmer this time, and succeeded in opening them wide enough for him to slip through.

He gasped. He couldn’t help it. He stood in a large hall, with an impossibly high ceiling from which an ornate, dusty, cob-web ridden, and half-broken old chandelier hung. Large portraits adorned the wall, covered in dust and mould so that he could not make out their subjects. The walls were made of stone, chipped and worn and covered in mould but still holding up. Large windows covered with dust through which light filtered in weakly occupied 50% of two of the wall, their old torn and faded curtains hanging limply off them. Broken down furniture resided in a corner. John could not help but wonder how _grand_ this hall must have once been. _Beautiful_ , and sadly, it was all gone now. Not a single thing in the place looked as though it had been preserved, everything was old and faded and covered in dust and mould, eaten away but rats and termites. It was quite sad, actually.

What was this place? A ballroom, perhaps? Would one have the entrance hall as the ballroom? Clearly this hall was meant to impress, for a guest to come in and have his breath taken away by the sheer splendour of it. He noticed large archways, no doubt leading to other rooms, which might be as grand as this or grander, but he wasn’t quite done here yet. He walked around a while, gazing at the paintings on the wall, trying to discern their features.

He was lost in his inspections and imaginings of times now lost, when a deep, cold voice broke in on his thoughts ,“Trespassing is a highly punishable crime, dear Doctor. Especially if the trespasser is foolish enough to trespass on the same place two days in a row.”


	3. Chapter 3

John jumped and whirled around. He almost missed the speaker first. It was a man, hidden in the shadows, just beyond the pale light streaming through the half-open curtains. Once John saw him, he found it hard to take his eyes off him. From what he could see, the man was tall and pale, with dark hair, and clothed entirely in black, save for trimmings of gold and silver and a few other things John couldn’t make out (precious stones perhaps?). Clearly the man was very rich, if he could afford to dress like a medieval lord. But other than that, he knew nothing. He couldn’t even make out his face, other than that it was pale as marble. He managed to find his voice (darn the thing, it had done what he so much wanted to at the sight of this man- run off). “I wasn’t aware that I was trespassing. I thought no one lived here.” Thank God, he sounded far braver than he felt.

“No one’s truly _lived_ here since the castle’s owners died. But this is still private property.” The man’s voice sounded lethal. _Pull it together, Watson. You survived two years of a bloody war, you can handle some weird bloke who looks like he jumped out of Hamlet_. He thought to himself.

“So, Doctor. You’ve had ample time to observe the place, having broken in twice. What do you think of it?” asked the stranger. His voice seemed to be coming from the depth of the ocean. A vague comparison to jaguars and cellos drifted through John’s mind. It sent a cold shiver down John’s spine, much like the one he’d experienced the day before.

“Who are you? How the _hell_ do you know I’m a doctor?”

“I know much more about you than that you’re a doctor. I know you’re on your way to a medical conference in the city, a three day’s journey from here. I know your father was in the war, probably in Afghanistan, and that you joined him there but were invalided home. You’re from the city too, London, perhaps, and stopped here instead of going straight to where the conference was being held because you liked the peace of the countryside but the place also intrigued you. The villagers told you one of those ridiculous stories they’ve been spouting for centuries, which piqued your curiosity, and now here you are.”

“How on earth- have you been following me? Watching me? Who the hell are you?” John was getting angry now. Was this a trap? Had the villagers set him up?

“I assure you I have better uses of my time than watching random Londoners. Who I am doesn’t matter, hasn’t mattered for years, and is certainly of no importance to you. And the villagers had nothing to do with anything, you came up here of your own accord and they don’t know of my existence. As to how I know those things about you, I didn’t. I simply observed. Your stance, your accent, your demeanor. It wasn’t hard. Now, your turn. What are you doing here? No, don’t tell me you’re just here because you were curious. You’re not the only being in this world with curiosity, yet no one else has set foot in this mansion in years. Why didn’t you come in yesterday? What made you stop, and what made you change your mind and come anyway? Is someone paying you? Clearly despite being a doctor you’re not very well off and even if you were, human beings have a certain flair for greediness. Well? Stop gawking at me and say something!” This last sentence was issued with an air of command, directly at John, while so far he’d been talking almost to himself, like a scientist making notes of his latest study. Despite himself, John was a little amazed. He had to search for his voice again (bloody thing could clearly not be trusted when under pressure.)

“No. Simply curious. They said ‘no one in over 600 years’ so I thought there’d be no harm in it. Why are _you_ here?” He sighed inwardly, thankful that he had still managed to keep his cool and hadn’t fun off screaming. He was filled with a sense of foreboding that grew stronger the longer he stood there, talking to the dark stranger. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to leave, to be out in the sunlight and fresh air again, far away from this dusty old castle as he could get. But he seemed rooted to the spot, pinned by the intensity of the man’s gaze. He was going to be murdered any second. “No one lives here, but you seem fairly comfortable with the place, so you’ve obviously been here a lot. But haven’t the villagers noticed you?”

The stranger sounded amused when he answered, “You’ve been here twice, doctor. And you come directly from the village. If they didn’t notice you, how would they notice a complete stranger? As you might have realized, they don’t like having much to do with the castle, other than those ludicrous tales, of course.” John supposed he had a point, but he still didn’t like the vague sense of dread he got from standing there in front of the man. If anything, a logical stranger was even more frightening.

There was something very _sinister_ about him. About the place. John thought perhaps something bad had happened there. Which was silly, because he didn’t believe in ghosts. But he also realized that that prickling sensation down the back of his neck hadn’t left. Intensified, probably.

John thought they ought to be wrapping up this conversation any moment now, never mind that he hadn’t seen as much of the place as he’d wanted to or that he had a million questions about the stranger. He’d probably get lost in the castle, he reasoned. Anyway, he’d been inside it, and if this room (hall, whatever) was old and dusty and mouldy and filled with things that had once been grand but now weren’t, the rest of them would be too. And it wasn’t like he was going to get any of his questions about the man answered, anyway.

“Yes, well, um… nice meeting you, I suppose. Pleasant little.. er.. chat, and all that. I’d best be going then.” He suddenly noticed that this man was between him and the door. Bother.

“Ah yes, of course, doctor. Wouldn’t want anyone inquiring after your absence, after all. Oh, and I suppose I should say, don’t bother trying to tell anyone about me, they would never believe you.” John blinked as the man stood aside, leaving John free to get to the door and leave. He’d been expecting him to protest, or something. This seemed so…. _Abrupt_. For a second, he thought of staying and arguing just for the sake of it. But it was gone after a second, and then he was just relieved that he might not be murdered after all. He suspected that this wouldn’t be his last encounter with the man. Which was a stupid thought, as he was leaving the next day. But he was still filled with a sense of dread, like he knew bad things were after him, waiting to lure him in….

He stood straighter and decided to leave. The stranger glanced at him, and said, in a voice deeper and colder and more sinister than he had used so far, “I hope to see you again, doctor. Good evening.” He turned and strode away, seeming to fade into the shadows. John hardly saw him leave. He walked out into the chill evening air, the sky orange-red. The door slammed behind him.

*****

“You’ve got a telegram, John”, Mrs.Turner’s voice abruptly snapped him back to the inn, where he was sitting at a table with a pint of beer in his hand that he wasn’t particularly interested in. “Thank you, Mrs.Turner.” He looked down at it and decided he’d better read it because it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. He raised his eyebrows after reading it. The telegram said that the medical conference he’d been supposed to attend had been postponed, to a month later. He was suddenly filled with a sense of panic. That stranger from the castle- he’d known that John would be attending that conference. Had he done something? Killed them all perhaps? Or had he simply just sent the telegram, to prevent John from leaving? Was he going to be killed after all?

John firmly pushed his panic-induced, downright irrational thoughts away. It must have all been a coincidence. It wasn’t as it this hadn’t happened before. The members of the committee in charge of the conference were notorious for their irregularity. He was just panicking because he’d received the telegram now, after encountering a strange man who’d frankly scared the living daylights out of him. Which in itself was irrational, because he might have looked strange and talked weird, but in retrospect there was little cause to be so afraid of a random stranger. Right. He was just being stupid. He’d let those horror stories of the village get to him. Utterly insane. He was a doctor, for God’s sake. A man of science.

He decided to call it a day and went up to bed.

*****

John had decided to stay in the town until it was time to leave again. It was really a nice place, the people were friendly, the weather was lovely, and there was really no point in going back to London again, just to have to turn around and come back after a day or two.

He hadn’t gone up to the castle since the day he’d met that man, which was 3 days ago. He didn’t want to meet him again, and besides, he was right- trespassing was a highly punishable offence. And he didn’t want the villagers catching him. He didn’t know how they would react, but he was hoping on not offending them. Especially as he was going to be staying here for a few more weeks. He spent his time going on long, leisurely walks (nowhere near the hill), reading books he’d borrowed from the local library, or making friends with the villagers. He wasn’t always bored, but he supposed he could do with a little more to.. do. But he was fine. Everything was fine. It was lovely. He rather liked this place. Perhaps he’d come here even after the conference was over, just to visit.

A few days later, he realized there was a small problem. Well, small, yes, but not so small that it wasn’t persistent. He should really have noticed it earlier. The small problem was the fact that he bloody well could not get the mysterious stranger who’d accosted him in the castle nearly a week ago out of his head. Yes, he should definitely have noticed this sooner. This was bloody annoying.

He’d been enjoying himself. It had been like a nice holiday. Until he’d suddenly noticed that half the time he wasn’t paying attention to things because his mind had been preoccupied with the dark, tall stranger with the deep cold voice that had made him want to run away screaming. This was annoying. It was also unfair. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the man was not really gone. He’d known that John had come to the castle two days in a row, hadn’t he? That the first time he’d just stood inside the gates and stared, not wanting to enter? Was he staying in the castle then? Perhaps not quite living there, not permanently, just out of curiosity, like John himself?

How had he known those things about John anyway? He’d said he didn’t know, that he simply observed. What did that mean? He observed John and had deduced those things from him? How? It all made no bloody sense. Sod it all, now he was getting curious again. He really should have just stayed away from it all in the first place. Now he was going to want to go back and look for the man and demand straight answers from him. John knew he wasn’t an idiot, but he also knew he was predictable. Which was probably what the man had meant when he said that he hoped they’d meet again too. Sod this. He was now getting bloody furious with himself.

Just as he expected, when John went to bed that night, he resolved to go back to the castle again the next day.

*****

In retrospect, thought John, as he stood before the great wooden doors of the castle again, maybe he _was_ an idiot.

He was feeling scared again. His legs felt like they might collapse under him any second. He hoped he wouldn’t be trembling when he met the man again. _If_ he met the man again. He might not this time. John didn’t know whether he wanted to or not at this point, so he decided to take things as they came.

He went inside. The Entrance Hall (as he decided to call it, nevermind if it was in fact something else) was exactly the same as he’d left it. He really hadn’t expected it to be different. He decided he wouldn’t hang around here, waiting for the stranger to show up, and to instead explore some other rooms. He noticed a passageway at the end of the hall, on his right. It was arched, with ancient gold rungs clinging only half-heartedly to the top. John supposed they were for curtains, though where those curtains were now he’d probably never know. He passed under it. The walls were cluttered with more faded paintings, and there were hooks on the wall that were probably to hold torches. It was rather dark in the passageway. He followed it until he came to a fork, no doubt leading to various parts in the interior of the castle. He saw faint light at the end of the one on the extreme left. He took out the pen he always had with him and marked the beginning of the wall near the mouth of the passage, and followed it.

He entered into a room, not as big as the one at the entrance, but large nonetheless. This room looked rather like a study. There was a large, handsome desk at one corner, with a _very_ old inkwell with a quill stuck in it still sitting on it. The room had large windows, these with the curtains fully opened, fully taking up one wall. Another chandelier hung from the ceiling, lower and not as grand or big as the one John had seen before. On one side of the desk, papers had been stacked. John could make out the elegant calligraphy. He moved to examine them further when he heard that voice again- “So, back again, doctor. I’m flattered you find the castle so interesting.”

He didn’t jump this time (nor was he trembling), but turned slowly. He could see the man more fully now. He was very pale, it hadn’t just been the light then. He was standing ramrod straight, looking at John with something akin to amused interest. His eyes were pale too, a sort of icy colour John couldn’t make out exactly. He had high, sharp cheeckbones, which only added to his extremely dramatically aristocratic look. On his head, his dark curls were tousled, but in an artistic way, so that they still seemed well-groomed. He looked.. well.. beautiful, John supposed. In an eerie, dark way. He wore a black velvet cloak, lined with gold and fastened on his left shoulder with a brooch with a bright red stone that John suspected was a ruby that the National Museum would go bankrupt for. Under the cloak, John could make out a shirt of deep aubergine, almost black, with dark buttons lined with gold to match his cloak. Black trousers sheathed his legs, which ended in feet encased in black leather shoes.

John got the impression that the man rather liked black.

“The castle is very intriguing, yes.” He said. “But I came here for you.”

The stranger elegantly arched an eyebrow, a small smirk creeping onto his face. “For me?” John got the impression he would have said more, but he cut him off. “Yes. I need answers, and you’re going to give them to me.”


	4. Chapter 4

The man before him arched an elegant eyebrow. “Answers? And for what? We have talked but once before. What questions could you have that would be so.. demanding?”

John heard the smirk in the man’s voice. He stood his ground, staring the man in the face. “We met only once, yes, but I do have questions. Doubts. What is a man such as you doing in a supposedly abandoned place? You met me when I entered the castle a week ago, you have met me again today. I did not search for you. You came and found me on your own. It is evident you know your way about the place. You have evidently been here awhile, at least. But why? And who are you? Every time I asked you that, you refused to answer. You said it wasn’t important, well, it doesn’t have to be. I want to know anyway. You must know a bit about the castle itself, as well. What do you know? About its last owners? I told, you, I want answers. I’m willing to wait here until I get them.”

The man’s smirk had become more pronounced now. “Well, doctor. You are certainly bolder now than on our first encounter. You want answers. You actually expect _me,_ a total stranger, to tell you what you want. You have already pointed out that I refused before, why should I change my mind and oblige you now?”

“Because”, John answered simply. “I already know you’re a Holmes.”

*****

_2 days previously_

John was getting sick of this. Why was his brain so damn irritating? It had always been a bit uncooperative, second guessing him all the time, making snide, sarcastic comments whenever he said something. Honestly, it was a pain. And now it was _refusing_ to listen to him on _any_ account, _insisting_ on harping about that old bloody castle and that strange creepy man. He was getting seriously _pissed off_ with his mind.

He was looking through records again. Older than the ones before. According to the priest, the church was about 200 years old, the old one had gotten too- old, and had been demolished and rebuilt. The records had been recopied, as they had been getting too worn. Much of the information of the old records had not been copied, as they had been deemed far too detailed and anyway, no one cared about the very, very old ones. John had asked if the old records had been preserved. The priest said yes, in a small town like theirs the history was all they had, and no one had had the heart to destroy the old things. They had been locked away in the basement of the church.

So now he was going through them. The priest was right, these were very worn and he could hardly make out anything. Most of them were useless, the paper (parchment, actually, he noted) had crumbled and torn, the ink had faded right off. Many turned to dust as soon as he touched them. Evidently, no one had bothered to preserve these, or take care of them at all. So much for ‘our history is all we have’ he thought.

John was just about to give up the whole thing as a lost cause when he suddenly noticed a slight glint from the middle of a book whose hard wooden cover had been eaten by termites and whose pages were stuck together, only to crumble when touched. He gently turned the leaves, searching for what had caught his eye. He had come to the middle of the book when he found it.

It was an old painting, only a little bigger than the size of his palm. He immediately saw why it had caught his attention, despite being buried in a mouldy old book centuries old.

It looked like new.

Well, not _exactly_ like new, it was still clearly old, but it had somehow managed what every other item of its time had not: It had survived. It was a painting of a man, clearly. The colours were faded, but could still be distinguished. It was framed with a thin sheen of gold, which was clearly what had glinted from within the book. The man’s features were smudged, but John could see them slightly when he peered close. He knew that face. At the bottom, there was a description, written in beautiful calligraphy, it’s black ink seemed to shine bolder than anything else in the painting: _Sherlock Sherrinford Holmes, 1250AD._

*****

John could see the man’s pale face grow even paler at his words. He couldn’t help but smiling satisfactorily inside his head. He had, at first upon seeing that painting, thought that this was Sherlock Holmes, the likeness had been so much. But then common sense had decided to drop by his head again and he had concluded that this must be a descendant.

“You seem a little tongue-tied, Mr.Holmes.” said John, unable to keep a note of triumph in his voice.

“Well done, doctor. You did your research. Congratulations on being one the few people I have met who has actually used their brain atleast once in their lives. Now, if you already know who I am, and can surely deduce from that what I am doing here, why must you come here seeking ‘answers’? Or did you come just to gloat?” He seemed to have collected himself now. Any trace of shock that had been on his face just a moment previously had now disappeared completely. His voice had returned to its deep drawl, his eyes looked challenging. “I came to find out why, if your family has continued for so long, no one has come to the castle. Why there are no records. Why you just _vanished_ until I happened to realize you’re obviously descended from Sherlock Holmes.”

“Many ancient families have vanished without a trace before, doctor, while their secret descendants live on, not even aware of their bloodline. It is not such a surprise as you make it out to be. And now, I feel, it is _I_ who must ask _you_ questions. There are no records, as you say. So how have you managed to trace my lineage? You even went so far as to mention a name- Sherlock Holmes. According to the remaining records, the family last consisted of 3 members did it not? The Bishop- Tiberinus, and _two_ brothers, Mycroft and Sherlock? How can you be so sure that I am descended from Sherlock Holmes, when the other two could have just as easily have had children in secret?”

John supposed he went a bit _too_ far with showing off how much he knew. Now he was trapped. This man would surely realize that there was something somewhere, it would be hard to give a convincing lie, especially under the man’s shrewd, calculating stare, as though he was slowly reading your life story from your very form, and was waiting to see if you would try to deceive him. Easier would be to tell the truth, which John was quite reluctant to do for some reason. He had an eerie feeling that there would be dire consequences.

“So you are descended from Sherlock Holmes, then?”, he asked testily.

“I refuse to give you an answer on that point. I will only go so far as to admit that I am indeed of the Holmes family. And don’t avoid the question, doctor. What makes you think I am a direct descendant of Sherlock Holmes? Any records would have been worn away by time by now, it has been over 600 years since he was last seen.”

John eyed him warily. Perhaps this whole thing _had_ been a mistake. He was now gazing at John with a fierce intensity in his pale eyes. His posture hadn’t changed from the moment they had started talking. He still stood with his back ramrod straight, his hands by his side and his head held high. His calculating expression had only faltered for a moment when John had dropped a bombshell. John realized that he still knew next to nothing about him. He might be a madman, a murderer even. Yet something about him drew John to him. There was something about him that attracted John. He knew he should have turned and run long ago, yet there was something that had made him stay. The man was interesting, at the very least. Extremely… _intriguing._

But there was no point to all that. The sun was going down, he needed to be back at the inn. Mrs.Hudson might worry.. or would she? He didn’t know. He just needed to go back. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d never come back here, or that he’d never see the man again if he left now (he was staying for a few more weeks after all). He wasn’t even sure if that was what he wanted. But right now, he needed to go back.. and think.

“It’s late. I should be getting back.”, he said.

“Ahh, running away again, are we? Very well. But remember, doctor, this will not be the last time we meet. I am aware that the conference you were supposed to attend has been postponed. Next time, _I_ will demand answers.” His voice had grown soft, lethal even. He seemed to be fading away into the shadows. John closed his eyes, thinking the dull light of the evening was playing tricks on them. When he opened them a moment later, the man was gone, leaving no sign that he had ever been there.

*****

And now it was worse than before. He was thinking about that descendant of the ancient Holmes family even in his sleep now, his face haunted John’s dreams. He needed to find something to occupy his mind. _An idle mind is the devil’s workshop_ he thought. Was it the devil who occupied his thoughts now?

It had been 2 days since he last went inside the castle, since he had last met that man. He could still see his face, the sharp cheekbones, the prominent jawline, the pale eyes, the dark curls that fell over his forehead. Seriously, this was unhealthy.

“All right, mate? You look like something’s bothering you.” John looked around at the voice. Sitting next to him was Lestrade, the town’s chief of police, with a mug of beer in his hand.

“Oh nothing. I’m fine. Just a slight headache. You don’t look to good yourself, though.” The inspector was looking weary, there were slight shadows under his eyes and he clearly hadn’t shaved in a few days.

“I’ve got a case. It’s a rather tricky one. I’m not just the chief inspector for this village, you know, but for this whole stretch of countryside. There’s been a nasty murder a few miles away, I can’t seem to wrap my head around it.” He gulped down the rest of his beer and sighed. “I’ve got to go look into it, have to leave in a half hour or so.”

John was interested. He welcomed the nice change of topic. “Can I come with you?”, he asked. Lestrade looked surprised. “I thought you had a headache.”

“Bit of fresh air should do me good. I won’t bother you or anything, I’ll just lurk in the sidelines.”

“Are you sure? A murder scene isn’t exactly a very attractive tourist spot.”

“I’ll be fine. I was in the war, actually. As a doctor. I’ve seen a good deal of nasty injuries, I’ve had wounded soldiers bleed out in front of me. I’ll be alright.” Lestrade nodded. “Alright then, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’ll get a horse saddled and ready. We leave in 30 minutes.”

*****

“ _You mean to tell me I rode 10 miles out here, for a ‘nasty and vicious murder’, only to be told that it was actually a suicide?!”_ Lestrade was furious now. John had been grateful that Lestrade had let him come along, and had welcomed the fresh air and the journey, which did indeed help with his headache, and also helped him take his mind off things. On the way, Lestrade had told him about the case.

The locals, a few children actually, had found been playing around in a large meadow when suddenly they ran behind a cluster of trees to find the body of a woman. The local police force had been called in immediately, and on further inspection it had been concluded that she had been poisoned. There was no sign of a struggle. She wasn’t one of the locals, she was from the city and just passing by.

But when John and Lestrade had got there, Anderson, the head of the village’s police,(John was interested to see that the ‘conspiracy theorist’ from his first night at the village was actually the head of police somewhere) had informed them that it was a suicide, which was why Lestrade was now slightly pink in the face from yelling.

“We didn’t do a full check then. The poison was clearly self-administered-“ began Anderson’s second-in-charge, Inspector Donovan.

“-Wrong.” A voice interrupted her from behind them, cutting of her stream of explanations. John froze. There was _no way in hell-_

“It _wasn’t_ a suicide, inspector, I am quite sure of that.” A man strode forward, clothed in a long black overcoat with a dark blue silk scarf around his neck. John had to stop himself from screaming. _How the fucking hell?!_ Was this man stalking him? Was he angry because John had first dared to enter his castle, and then had found out who he was, and so was now determined to _never leave him the fuck alone_ and make his life a living hell? Because if so, was certainly doing a very good job of it.

“And how are you so sure of that?” , asked Lestrade. John looked at him. He seemed to know this strange man, he even seemed a tad _relieved_ to see him. _What the fuck was going on?_

“I never reveal anything before I have solved the case completely, Lestrade, you know that. And who is your friend?” John realized he was talking about him. Wait what? _‘Solved the case’_ was he here to help them… solve the murder?

“Oh, yes. This is John Watson. He’s a doctor from London who has to attend a meeting of some sort in the next city, so he’s staying with us until he has to leave. John, this is Mr.Sigerson.”

“Sherlock, please. Pleasure to make your acquaintance…… doctor.” John could detect a slight trace of amusement in his voice. He himself had to fight to keep himself seem cool and composed. Nothing more than meeting a stranger for the first time and being introduced. Absolutely normal. One did this sort of thing everyday. “Pleasure’s all mine, Sherlock.” He said. He raised his eyebrow slightly as he said the name. Sherlock looked back defiantly, as though challenging him to break out and start screaming.

“Wait hold on- you can’t just bring people in here, it’s bad enough _he’s_ here, without some stranger from the city too!” Donovan’s initial annoyance at being talked over forgotten, she now glared at John like he had personally offended her. He was just going to say that it was alright, he’d just take a walk around and not get in their way, when Sherlock spoke. “It’s quite alright Donovan. He’s with me.” John looked at him in surprise. So did Lestrade. “With you?”

“Yes, it’ll be useful having a doctor around. And having been in the army he’s already quite used to violent deaths and bloodshed.”

Everyone looked at him in surprise. “How did you know he was in the army?” asked Lestrade.

Sherlock sighed. He turned to John. “The way you carry yourself, the state you keep your clothes, the way you maintain your hair, they all say military. You’re left handed, you were about to offer your left hand to shake before you realized I was already holding out my right. You clearly have a serious injury in your left arm. Bullet wound then. So, army doctor then, wounded in action. I can also say that you were probably in Afghanistan, which is the most recent war. Am I wrong?”

John blinked. “No…. bloody hell, you got all that just by observing things about me? In 2 minutes?”

“Everyone has eyes, Doctor Watson, not many use them fully.”

“That was amazing.” Sherlock looked a bit stunned for a moment. Then he abruptly cleared his throat and turned to Anderson. “Now are we going to the crime scene, or are we going to keep standing around and exchanging useless pleasantries?” He seemed to be getting slightly annoyed now. Everyone else seemed surprised. No one said anything for a moment, in which he gave an impatient huff and whirled out the door, his coat flapping dramatically behind him. Anderson and Donovan made loud but vague noises expressing their deep indignance. John and Lestrade followed them. John had a million questions running through his head but he decided to save them for later.

Outside, Sherlock was already enthusiastically examining the body, which had been left as it was found so they could gather more clues and data. The woman was clothed in a pink lacy dress, with a pink hat, and a matching pink umbrella was lying next to her. John noticed that on the tree next to the victim, at the bottom near the ground, was scratched _Rache._ It had clearly been done with a small knife or blade of some kind. Sherlock was on his knees beside the body know, bending over it and muttering to himself. He suddenly turned to Lestrade. “Shut up.” Lestrade looked taken aback. “I didn’t say anything.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You were thinking, it’s annoying.” He turned back to the body. “R-A-C-H-E…….” he muttered.

He turned back to them sharply. “She was a journalist, or writer. That is evident from the calluses on her fingers and wrists. She was married, but unhappily. No children, she’s clearly far away from home and a woman like her would hardly go more than a few streets away from her house if she had children. She was clearly a professional and had a job which required being seen, going by the state of her hair and the high quality of her clothes, and also the way everything from her hair bow to her shoes and umbrella are colour-coordinated. She was travelling in a coach in the rain, that is evident from the splashes of mud on her sleeves (sitting by the window), and her umbrella, which is made to protect against rain as well as the sun. That’s all I can get at the moment, I’ll need time to think.”

John couldn’t help it. “That was brilliant.” He said. Everyone looked at him. Sherlock cleared his throat again. “Yes, um.. thank you.”

“Now hold on!” Donovan stepped forward, glaring. “You can’t just waltz in here and do whatever you want, freak. I told you, _the poison was self-administered._ There is no more data to collect!”

“ You said yourself she was having an unhappy marriage, she might have finally had enough of it and killed herself, you know.”, added Anderson.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. “Anderson, don’t talk out loud, you lower the IQ of everyone within a 20-mile radius. If she was killing herself because of her marriage, why would she do it in a remote village miles away from where she lived, on the way to someplace else? And why would those letters be carved?” Anderson looked disgruntled. Clearly he was unhappy, but couldn’t think of anything to counter Sherlock, who actually had a point. Sherlock looked at John. “If you could examine the victim now, doctor.”

Donovan flared up again. “We have our own experts you know, I don’t know _why-“_ Lestrade cut her off with a sigh. “Drop it you two. Honestly. Sherlock, John, you have two minutes. We’ll be inside. It’s burning out here.” He turned back, gesturing to Anderson and Donovan to follow him, which they did with very disgruntled and irritated expressions.

John dropped to his knees next to Sherlock, beside the body. “What the _fucking hell-“_

“- I assure you this was all just a pleasant coincidence, John. I did not orchestrate this.” John sighed. “So. Sherlock Sigerson?”

“Well I can hardly tell them my real name, can I?”

“What are you doing here then?”

“I solve crimes for a living. I’m not with the police, however. But whenever there’s an interesting case, I look into it. The police are always out of their depth, you’ve met Anderson, they can hardly make head or tail of anything. So I help them. Now if you would examine the body.”

John sighed again and resigned himself to his task. “She’s a little over 30, I’d say. Died of… asphyxiation. Poisoned, of course. Which is exactly what they said so I don’t know why you need me.” Sherlock looked at him, eyes glinting strangely. He got up and turned back, going back to the building which was police headquarters. John sighed for the third time and followed him.

*****

“Right. So. Who exactly is he?”, John asked Lestrade. They were back in the village now, in Mrs.Hudson’s inn. It was dinner time, and they were both tired from the day’s excitement and aching to get to bed.

“Well, I can’t exactly be sure. I don’t know where he’s from, but he turns up for crimes to investigate. Sometimes when when we’re out of our depth, which he’d no doubt tell you is always, we can ask him. We don’t really know how to contact him, but for the tough cases he shows up anyway. He’s got a brother, I’ve met him. If you think Sherlock is eccentric, you won’t even be able to imagine his brother. Sherlock’s alright though, not as bad as Anderson and Donovan make him out to be. He doesn’t take credit for solving the crimes, lets us do all that. And he’s not so bad, really. He just…. likes a good challenge.” Lestrade shrugged, looking as if there was nothing more he could think to say at the moment. “Listen, mate. It’s been a long day. I’m going to turn in.” He yawned. John nodded. “Yes, me too. Thanks for that, though. I needed that. It was kind of fun.” Lestrade grinned. “Fun? No wonder he liked you. Hey no problem. I’ll take you next time too. Goodnight then.” John smiled back. “Ta, Lestrade.”

He finished his dinner and went up to his room, not quite knowing what to make of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not have any of this planned out at all, when I initially mapped out the chapter. I don't even know if I'd intended any of this to be in the story. But I rather like it and I think it all worked out quite well. I hope you liked it! Please review!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right,  
> I am sooooo sorry for the long wait! I had exams this entire month and  
> they've only just finished. This chapter isn't all that long, but things  
> will happen in this one and the next, which will be posted in a few  
> days. I'll start my regular Sunday updates again after this!  
> You can also follow me on Tumblr if you wish, my url is 'dragons-and-pandas'  
> Please review!

John woke with a strange feeling, a cold prickling at the back of his neck that was becoming all too familiar to him. He shook it off, thinking it was the after effects of a dream he’d probably had last night (he’d been pretty stressed too, flashes of fangs and blood came back to his mind, along with a particularly unpleasant feeling of being drowned in cold water while a deep voice echoed through its depths). He turned over, not opening his eyes and hoping to erase the tension and panic that had instilled itself it his chest and not left. He took a deep breath and sighed. Right. He needed to be level-headed with this. If he was being hunted by some lunatic it would be best if he was thinking clearly and could work out solutions.

“If you’ve quite come to terms with yesterday’s events, doctor, there are things that need seeing to.”

His eyes flew open. He bolted upright and had to take a minute to clear the stars that floated in his vision. When he could see clearly, he looked around frantically- and there he was. Sitting with ease in a wooden chair in the more shadowy part of John’s room, looking completely at home, and looking at John with both amusement and impatience.

Bloody hell. _Bloody hell._ Couldn’t this man ever just _leave him alone?_ He was about to voice this last thought when another struck him. He felt he would lead with that one.

“How long have you been sitting there?” he demanded. The thought of this sinister stranger just sitting there, in the dark, watching him sleep- he fought to repress a shudder. It was not so much ‘unappealing’ and ‘ _downright fucking terrifying’._

“About 10 minutes. I’ve been trying to wake you but other than flailing about and muttering incoherent nonsense, you’d not been much responsive.” His tone seemed to be leaning toward amused now, though he still looked impatient, as though John was freaking out over nothing.

“Right. And _why_ were you trying to wake me?”

“I told you, there are things that must be attended to.” John blinked. He’d been in the army for a year, for god’s sake, he could be quick and lively in the mornings, no matter how early, but this was too much for him to take in all at once.

“What things? And why do you need me to help attend to them?” _Brilliant, Watson. You’ve progressed to two questions together now. Perhaps he’ll appreciate you saving time like this._

Mr.Holmes- Sherlock, he supposed he’d better call him, though why he’d choose his name to be that of an ancestor who supposedly went mad and murdered his father he had no idea. But then he was eccentric- rolled his eyes. “Honestly, you didn’t seem this dense the last time we met. The crime, remember? The murder, which those imbeciles who pass off as police officers only because the remote countryside has not seen any _real_ ones, though frankly those babbling bumbling band of baboons at the Yard are no better, claim is a suicide?”

“Oh. I thought you were handling that. You said you were a detective.” The phrase ‘babbling bumbling band of baboons’ was now floating aimlessly through his head. His brain was definitely useless.

Sherlock, for the first time, looked a little pleased, as though John’s recognition of him as a detective was what he had been aiming for from the first. “Yes. I am a detective. In fact, I may even be _the_ detective. So, get dressed quickly, I shall be waiting outside with the horses.” With that he stood up and exited the room gracefully, his elegant form striding out the door which shut behind him. John sighed, and noticed he seemed to be that a lot lately. He walked to the bathroom and thought he’d better get ready then.

Sherlock was, as promised, waiting outside with the horses. He’d put on an elegant hat of black leather, with a rather large, flat brim that looked ridiculous but in a noble, aristocratic way. He was sitting on top of a tall black horse. John could not help gaping at the horse as he got up on his own. The beast was handsome, and looked as well-bred as his master, with sleek hair that glistened in the early sunlight, and his proud head which he held high. He’d seen horses like these, in the army, belonging to the colonels and generals. This one, though, looked far younger, and not quite as dignified and wise as those.

Firmly seated on the saddle, he turned to Sherlock. “Where are we going, why are we going there, why am **_I_** going there, what are we going to do when we get there (no, that’s not the same as ‘why are we going there’), and when do you estimate we’ll be back?”

Sherlock looked slightly annoyed at being bombarded with questions. “I _told_ you, we’re going to investigate the murder, because it’s obviously a murder, the police are stupid. You’re coming with me because you’re not as dull as the others, even despite how slow you are this morning. When we get there, we’re going to look for clues and see if there’s anything that will help us solve this murder, and prevent the next one. I have no definite idea when we’ll be back, but it will be by nightfall, latest, I can assure you that. Now can we leave or do you still have inane questions for me, doctor?”

John didn’t actually. He was also not quite sure on whether to be annoyed or flattered on being called ‘not as dull as the others, despite how slow he was this morning’. He settled on slightly flattered, because it seemed like high praise coming from such a man. He was also happy he was going to go help solve the crime, because he’d been interested in it. He shook his head slightly. “That’s all thanks. And you can call me John.” Sherlock beamed at him. “Brilliant! Come John, the game is on!” he exclaimed and then turned his horse around and set off at a gallop, his black coat flapping out behind him . John blinked and quickly followed him, trying not to note that he found Sherlock extremely endearing when he smiled like that.

*****

When they arrived at the woods where the woman had been found, Sherlock jumped off his horse and led him to a tree where he tied him to a branch. John did the same with his own horse (not jumping off though, he preferred dismounting properly like a dignified person) and stood next to him. Sherlock was staring at the trees and the ground and muttering under his breath. John couldn’t quite catch what he was saying. Suddenly something he’d said before they left struck him. “Hold on, what do you mean, ’prevent the next murder’?” Sherlock started slightly, as though he’d forgotten that anyone was there, and turned to John. “Oh, don’t you see? It’s obvious.” John raised an eyebrow at him. “We’re not all so terribly clever you know. Most of us tend to be quite dull.” Sherlock’s lips twitched. “Yes I’ve noticed. Alright, you remember what was carved onto the tree stump next to her?” John thought back. “Yes.” He said slowly, “R-A-C-H-E, wasn’t it? Like ‘Rachel’, but without the ‘l’ at the end.” Sherlock grinned at him. “Brilliant John! I knew you’d catch on better than the others. ‘Rachel’ yes. I looked into the town records afterward, there’s no Rachel living here, but there is one in the village just before this, the last one we passed on our way here. ‘ _Rache’_ is also German for ‘revenge’. Which is why this was obviously a murder. No one committing suicide carves ‘revenge’ onto a tree stump with their dying breath. And even if it were ‘Rachel’, the same argument could be made. And certainly not a lady. No this was murder, John. Perfectly executed by someone who is ruthless and cunning and is most likely to be more than willing to do it again.” John gulped. “And you’re sure of this?”, he asked nervously. Sherlock nodded slightly. “Quite.”

They spent the whole day snooping around, looking for clues that only Sherlock could see. John, for his part, did not understand what was going on half the time, especially when Sherlock would suddenly exclaim “Aha!” or things of the sort and mutter to himself excitedly, no doubt making brilliant deductions. He sometimes just stopped somewhere, stood completely still and would stare off into the distance, and then suddenly come back to himself and continue like before. John was not completely useless, he pointed out a few things that seemed odd to him, about half of which Sherlock dismissed as pointless, but one or two he considered brilliant and would get that excited gleam in his eyes. John actually enjoyed himself. So much so that he hardly noticed time passing, until the gleam of the setting sun caught him by surprise. “Oh shit, it’s almost sundown!” he exclaimed. Sherlock looked up, surprised. He hadn’t noticed the passing of time either. “Oh. Yes. So it is.” There was something in his voice, John noted later, that he couldn’t quite place at the time, as he was too preoccupied with how late it was to give it much thought. “I really ought to be getting back. They will wonder where I’ve gone.” Sherlock was not looking at him. “Right. You can leave, then. I did give you my word you would be back by nightfall.” John noticed the oddness of his tone this time, by did not comment on it. He was just realizing that he hadn’t eaten all day, and was famished. He untethered his horse, the poor creature had been obliged to follow him around all day as he and Sherlock had dashed madly about the forest and village (it was quite a big place, actually, and he was afraid they’d get lost or that the horses might be stolen).

John mounted and looked back. “Aren’t you coming?” Sherlock looked around for a minute, hesitating. “I suppose I might as well, it’ll be dark soon anyway.” They rode back, and John noticed that Sherlock seemed a little _off_ all of a sudden, which was odd as he’d seemed so excited just half an hour before. He didn’t want to question him though, it seemed rude, and he did just barely know the man. Perhaps he was just thinking over the details.

They arrived back at the inn. Sherlock nodded to him (he seemed alright, though in the half-light John could make out a strange steeliness to his eye) and said, “Well goodnight John. I must say I rather enjoyed today, which is something I can rarely say of a day spent in another’s company, which is to say that, quite frankly, this was one of those rare days during which I did not have to choose between murdering everyone around me or killing myself. Perhaps we’ll meet again. Goodnight.” John nodded back, smiling slightly. He seemed so.. _solemn_ and _proper._ John had to bite back a retort. Honestly, he could hardly believe this man. “Ta, Sherlock. I had fun as well, just so you know.” Sherlock paused for a moment, looking at John. John thought he was going to say something, but then he abruptly turned his horse around and rode off toward the castle. John turned back to the inn, feeling strange. As he was washing for bed, he realized that he hadn’t asked how Sherlock had gotten into his rooms in the first place, Mrs.Hudson would hardly have let someone just enter while John was sleeping.The question had hardly crossed his mind. He wondered what that said about his mental state.

*****

The next day, John finally had the chance to inquire about another thing which he was surprised to find had not struck him immediately, when Mike dropped by for a pint. “Hey Mike, mind if I ask you something?” he asked, knowing full well that there was no point in asking if he could ask a question, having asked one already. But it was one of those things that one does or says even whilst fully acknowledging the lack of logic to it. Mike was the priest of the town, also the town historian, and it had taken a lot of coaxing to stop John calling him ‘Father’. Which was why John had had to wait until he was free to ask him something which had been nagging him ever since he’d spotted it. “You said that Tiberinus Holmes… was a bishop? So how did he-“

“-How did he get married and have kids?” Mike grinned. “It’s simple enough mate, he got became a bishop after his wife died.”

“Oh, right, of course.” John suddenly realized that this was why he hadn’t pounced on this small detail in the beginning.

“Thanks for clearing that up.” Well that was one mystery solved (or maybe not, after all?). Now he had to work through the hundred others that were still pestering his brain. First and foremost was that of Sherlock Sigerson, the mystery man who had turned out to be a descendant of a madman who’d lived over 600 years ago before vanishing without a trace. Who turned out to be a- what had he said? Oh yes, a consulting detective. Who had almost managed to make John wet himself on their first encounter (not quite though, you understand). And who had apparently taken a liking to John, enough to show up in his rooms (without invitation) that morning and had just fallen short of _demanding_ John to …. _assist_ him the entire day. And, (funnily enough, this seemed the most bizarre, given the impression he’s formed of the man) who had enjoyed John’s company enough to be disappointed when it was time for them to part ways. Or atleast John assumed that the last part was true, it had seemed like it (was this the cause of Sherlock’s silent and moody demeanour on their ride home?) John had no idea what to make of the man.

The rest of the morning was spent in relaxed leisure. John sat on the porch of the little inn reading a book which had been published a couple of years before, and had been very successful. It was an interesting read, not his usual type of book but he was rather liking it. It was rather chilly in some parts, but that was the hallmark of a good vampire novel, was it not? He was finding it rather well-written. Certain parts sent goosebumps up his spine, and he felt sorry for the poor bloke in the story who had found himself sharing a medieval castle (John imagined it to be like the Holmes’ Mansion) with a vampire and not even realizing that there was a very specific reason his kind host kept to himself, seemed to never dine, and had been observed crawling over the castle walls like an overgrown bat.

Around noon he looked up from his book (nearly finished) and stretched. He thought he’d go for a walk after lunch, while this time of day might have been searing in London it was relatively more pleasant here.

While he was strolling around the outskirts of the village, the hill on which the castle stood caught his eye. He hesitated. Should he go over there? Sherlock had apparently found no fault in barging into John’s rooms at the inn after all. But then John had been the one to go to the castle first. He’d spoken to Lestrade earlier that day. There had been no new leads on the case, Sherlock hadn’t told him anything, and Lestrade had been genuinely surprised to hear that Sherlock had asked him to accompany him the day before (John made it seem like Sherlock had walked up to him while in the pub or something, he thought it best to leave out the fact that he’d woken up to find the man sitting comfortably in his room), which didn’t surprise John, Sherlock didn’t seem the social type. “Well good luck with him, then mate. I’ll let you know if anything comes up.” Lestrade had said, clapping him on the back before swigging down the rest of his coffee and walking out.

John sighed. He was actually enjoying his time with this man, (he would realize, later, that what he was feeling was perhaps a bit more than just enjoyment) and he would be leaving in a week or two. He wanted to help solve the case by that time atleast. He looked up and walked toward the hill.

He was standing in what looked like a dining room (it had a ridiculously long table with only a few chairs, John supposed the rest were too broken to be used), admiring the elegant, polished wood of the table that still looked fascinating despite being hundreds of years old when he heard footsteps behind him. Assuming it was Sherlock, he turned around, only to find it wasn’t. Behind him stood a tall man, slightly taller than Sherlock even, dressed in a prim, crisp silk suit and leaning casually on a long umbrella. John frowned. “Who are you?” he asked. The man gazed at him intently.

“John Watson, I presume. Formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, invalided home after merely 14 months of service from a nearly fatal shot to the shoulder,” he said in crisp, clear tones, ignoring John's question. Unlike Sherlock, he didn’t sound as though he was working things out, he sounded like he was simply stating facts he knew were facts. John thought he wounded like he’d swallowed a file or something. (When he looked back on this day, he thought he probably had).

“Umm.. no you see, I asked who _you_ were. I already know who I am, thanks.” The man in front of him gave him a tight-lipped smile, as though he thought John was being too clever for his own good.

“I also assume you’re here to meet Sherlock.”, he continued, as though John hadn’t said anything. _Who I am doesn’t matter, and certainly not to you_ , John thought, Sherlock's words echoing back to him. Hold on- Lestrade had mentioned a brother hadn’t he? _If you think Sherlock’s eccentric, you won’t be able to imagine his brother._ Those had been Lestrade’s exact words. Was this man Sherlock’s brother then? He frowned. Then man, however, wasn’t done talking. “And what exactly is your interest in Sherlock ?” John’s frown deepened.

“I really don’t think that’s any of your business.” Actually, if he was Sherlock’s brother, it was sort of his business, but John decided to let that slide. The man clearly disagreed with John’s spoken statement.

“Oh but I think it is. What do you know about him?”

“Umm.. not much.. I met him.. 2 weeks ago.” John was actually starting to get nervous now, with the man fixing him with a steady glare that looked as though he was staring into the depths of John’s mind, reading his thoughts, and highly disapproving them.

“Two weeks is a long time, doctor. In that time you’ve met him 4 times, including once when he broke into your room at the local inn and you spent the entire day with him. A day you both enjoyed, might I add, a feat not achieved by many. Might we expect a happy announcement at the end of this week? Before you leave for that conference, at least?”

“What? No. I don’t know, he just… showed up. And he’s not that bad, you know, “ John said, because he _wasn’t,_ actually. He was starting to get a bit annoyed now.

“Hmm.. again, you’re one of the _very_ few people to feel that way.”

“Well, if we all felt and thought the same the world would be a very dull place wouldn’t it? I’m sure your brother would agree.” The man actually laughed at this, though not in a particularly merry way. “You’re clever, John Watson, I’ll give you that. And bold too, you don’t seem frightened of me in the least.” He looked at John with mild interest now, who was now fighting the urge to roll his eyes. This man – Sherlock’s brother-evidently thought far too much of himself. “You don’t seem very frightening,” he shot back.

“Well put John, I’ve been telling him that for years and yet he still feels the need to try and intimidate me and everyone I associate with. It is most tedious,” said a familiar, bored voice from behind the man in front of John. He turned around. “Not trying to intimidate, brother dear, only trying to ascertain the sort of company you keep. Good evening John.” He glanced at John (who had no idea what to make of his remark) politely before striding away, using his umbrella as a cane.

“Don’t mind him,” said Sherlock, walking forward to meet John. “I certainly don’t. What brings you here?” he looked at John expectantly. John suddenly realized he had no idea why he was there. He’d acted purely on impulse. “Umm… wanting to know if you had any leads? Lestrade didn’t, but I figured you would, we did spend an entire day investigating.”

“Oh, yes. I have 7 theories, none of which can be confirmed until the murderer strikes again.”

“Are you willing to share?”

“No,” said Sherlock simply. John paused, not knowing what to do or say next.

“Alright, show me the castle then. The whole reason we met in the first place was because I was curious.”

Sherlock looked at him interestedly. “Alright. Follow me, and take care in certain places, the floor is old and could give way below us, especially dangerous in the top floors.”

They spent the entire day wandering about the castle, which Sherlock knew quite a bit about. The floor was old and worn in a few places, and once John nearly fell three floors, if Sherlock had not caught his arm. A few rooms Sherlock refused to enter, giving no explanation, and John did not ask for any. One room, which was comparatively small and cramped, Sherlock announced was his namesake’s mother’s old room, before she had died. John almost asked to see Sherlock’s room, the question almost out of his mouth before he caught himself. It would be rude, not to mention weird.

He left and returned home late in the afternoon, feeling oddly satisfied. It was starting to feel like a holiday now, calm and relaxing. Despite the minor detail of a grotesque murder of course. He could actually get used to this.. He paused at that, staring at his scotch. It wasn’t the first time he had considered staying. London was getting tiring anyway, it was why he’d left early so he’d have a few days before the conference. He yawned, suddenly realizing how exhausted he was, and trudged upstairs to bed. As he fell asleep, he realized, indignant as he had been this morning, he really wouldn’t mind if Sherlock was there the next morning as well. If he’d managed to stay awake a minute longer, he would have seriously considered if there was something wrong with him, only to shrug it off and push the thought away.

*****

Luckily (or sadly?) the morning brought no uninvited visitors waiting for him. The morning passed with almost tedious normality. He was considering how to spend his afternoon when Lestrade came in.

“Ah, John! Knew I’d find you here”, he said, walking over. “Listen mate, new developments on the case, you want to come?’’

John raised an eyebrow. He’d actually not been expecting the Inspector to keep his word. “Really?”, he asked, not supressing the slight dubious hint to tone. “I thought Anderson and Donovan were strongly opposed to a civilian at a crime scene.’’

Lestrade looked at him and sighed. ‘’I’m not going to lie. I wasn’t really planning on taking you, thought perhaps I’d just tell you what we found and all that, but……’’ he trailed off. John looked at him, waiting patiently for him to continue. Lestrade sighed again. “ _He_ is being stubborn. Refuses to say anything unless you’re there. Says you’re far cleverer than the rest of us and he doesn’t like too much stupid in the room.’’ Lestrade rolled his eyes. ‘’So now I’m hoping you’ll come with me, because at this point I’m desperate.’’

John wasn’t quite sure what to think. He was in no doubt who ‘he’ was, but he didn’t know whether to be flattered or exasperated. He settled for ‘mildy amused’ and decided to cooperate. He was dying to know more about the case anyway. ‘’Alright I’ll come.’’ Lestrade looked relieved. “Brilliant. I’ll brief you on the way.

*****

As it turned out, the woman they’d found was in fact the 4th, not the first, of various women who’d all died of supposedly ‘self-administered’ poisons in the countryside in the last 6 months. The rest had all been found in their houses, or in the local inns, or, in the case of one, the stable. When news of the latest case had reached the other villages, the police constables there had reported the matter. In all cases, the poisons were commonly found, and all the women had been between 20-30 years of age. There was nothing else linking the deaths.

Sherlock had arrived just before John, and when he found out, spent a good 10 minutes yelling at everyone for their stupidity. Then he said he would have to re-evaluate all his theories and nothing more could be done until he had more data. Then he left in a huff, leaving Lestrade anxious, Anderson and Donovan irritated and angry, and John wondering what had just happened. There was nothing more to be done, so he headed back home with Lestrade.

As he reached the inn, he looked up at the hill. It was still early. He hesitated, then made up his mind. He left his horse in the stable and headed up towards the castle.

He entered past the great big doors and looked around. This was his fourth time seeing the Entrance Hall, but it still struck him just as it did the first time. He sort of knew the castle now, after yesterday’s tour, so he wandered around, gazing leisurely at the walls, looking at the faded paintings, the old tapestries, the gilded arches. He had no doubt that Sherlock would find him as he had done before. He was passing by a room when he heard raised, angry voices, speaking in rapid French. He wasn’t an eavesdropper, he hated invading people’s privacy, and was about to move on to next room, when he heard his name and paused.

As the argument between Sherlock and his brother progressed (who else could it be?), John found himself rooted to the spot, unable to believe what he was hearing, and more afraid for his life than he’d ever been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The  
> line 'babbling bumbling band of baboons' is from the movie of Harry  
> Potter and the Goblet of Fire, because I just couldn't resist.  
> The 2nd Anglo-Afghan War, in which John Watson from ACD's canon fought,  
> was fought between 1878 and 1880. I figured this John to be around 40,  
> which means he's born in 1860, because this is set in 1900, so I figured  
> he joins when he's 19, in 1879, and comes back home just before the war  
> ends.  
> The book John's reading is Dracula by Bram Stoker, by the way, in case any of you were curious.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to Superwhowizlocking for the French translations!  
> Please review!! :D

John’s French was not brilliant. But it was sufficient to understand the words being spoken on the other side of the wall (the door was open, so he was standing a little off to the side). What he heard both terrified and bewildered him. Suddenly he heard angry footsteps, and managed to hurl himself into the next room just as Sherlock stormed out, his face thunderous. He was so furious he hadn’t even looked around and noticed John as he passed. John managed to hide himself behind a large curtain before Mycroft came out. Once the brothers had left and the coast was clear, he ran back to the village.

When he got back to the inn, he immediately ran up to his room, shutting the door and slumping down heavily on his bed, breathing hard. He needed to clear his head. He needed to think rationally. He could not, would not, believe what he’d just heard. But the words kept floating around him.

He fell back and groaned, rubbing a hand over his forehead. This was just not fair. He was going insane. He stared up at the ceiling, thinking.

_‘’Il semblerait que tu te sois bien rapproché de John Watson.’’_

_(You seem to have gotten quite close to John Watson.)_

_‘’Je connais ce ton, Mycroft. J’ai du le supporter pendant six cent soixante-douze ans. Ce ne sont pas tes affaires.’’_

_(I know that tone of yours, Mycroft. I’ve had to put up with it for six hundred and seventy two years. This is none of your business.)_

_‘’Ce n’est qu’une simple observation mon cher frère. Pas besoin d’être arrogant.’’_

_(I’m just making an observation, brother dear. No need to get all haughty.)_

_‘’J’ai prit en compte ton observation. Maintenant laisse tomber.’’_

_(Your observation is noted. Now lay off.)_

_‘’Fais cependant attention, Sherlock.’’_

_(Be careful though, Sherlock.)_

_‘’Mycroft-‘’_

_‘’Je suis heureux que tu ais réussi à faire la connaissance d’une personne dont tu n’as pas encore eue l’envie de jeter en enfer pour leur stupidité, tu devrais cependant être prudent.’’_

_(As glad as I am that you have managed to make an acquaintance of someone whom you have so far not desired to throw into hell for their stupidity, you should exercise caution.)_

_‘’Je suis prudent, Mycroft. Je ne suis pas un imbécile. Pour l’amour de Dieu, il pense que je suis un descendant de moi-même. Tout va **bien**.’’_

_(I am cautious, Mycroft. I am not a fool. For God’s sake, he thinks me to be a descendant of myself. It is **fine.)**_

_‘’Mais tu vois? Il est arrivé aussi loin. S’il venait à être suspicieux-‘’_

_(But you see? He managed to get that far. If he were to become suspicious-)_

_‘’-De quoi, Mycroft ? Les humains ne savent pas penser au delà d’un certain degré. Rien que de considérer cette possibilité, leur cerveau explose.’’_

_(-Of what, Mycroft? Humans never think beyond a certain capacity. It makes their brains explode, simply considering the possibility.)_

_‘’Nous étions humains aussi, Sherlock. Mais plus maintenant. Et il est le seul qui soit assez courageux pour entrer dans le château, nous ne sommes plus autant en sécurité qu’avant son arrivée. S’il s’avérait qu’il te surprennes -ou moi- en train de, et bien, quelque chose, pendant un repas par exemple…’’_

_(We were once human too, Sherlock. But we are not anymore. And he is the only one brave enough to enter the castle, we are no longer as safe as we were before his arrival. If he were to catch you-or I- doing, well, anything, during a feeding for instance…)_

_‘’Mycroft.’’_

_‘’Tu es un vampire, Sherlock Holmes. Ne te t’approche pas des humains. Et j’espère que tu prendras soin de ce problème.’’_

_(You are a vampire, Sherlock Holmes. Do not get to close to humans. And see to it that you take care of this problem.)_

_‘’IL N’Y A PAS DE PROBLÈME !!!’’_

_(THERE IS NO PROBLEM!!!)_

Their voices echoed in his head, taking hold of his mind, relentless, persisting, not allowing him to push them away and think of other, less utterly unnerving topics.

There was no way in hell that Sherlock Holmes was _the_ Sherlock Holmes, and a 672 year old vampire. It made no sense. Vampires did not exist. He looked over at his table, where that novel he’d been reading still lay. Yes, see? A work of fiction. No, it was all quite simple, actually. The man he knew as Sherlock Holmes was a madman. And a very, very dangerous one.

*****

“Hello John.”

John gulped, trying not to look as though he was more terrified of the man in front of him than he had ever been of anything in his life. “Sherlock.’’, he responded, glad and amazed at how calm and steady his voice was.

They were in Lestrade’s office, going over the details of the case. John, frankly, wasn’t paying that much attention and was trying desperately not to look as though he were afraid he’d get hacked to pieces by a psychopath any moment.

Sherlock, of course, never missed anything. “Is something wrong?’’, he asked, looking and sounding as though there were perfectly normal and trivial things that John was worried about. ‘’Oh, nothing. I’m fine, really.’’, replied John, wanting to draw the topic to safer things, or, better still, to stop the conversation completely and run a thousand miles in the opposite direction.

‘’Alright then. ‘’ Sherlock turned to Lestrade. It was only John’s interest in the case that made him listen vaguely as Sherlock told Lestrade in no uncertain terms how unnecessary and irrelevant this meeting was and how exactly was he supposed to think if he kept getting interrupted by stupidity, at the end of which Lestrade sighed and shook his head, saying he was sorry but he was desperate because this case was far more serious than he’d first thought. Then Sherlock huffed, and got up. John trailed after him.

When he went outside, he found Sherlock waiting for him, looking irritated.

“I need more information’’, he sighed. ‘’I cannot come to a definite conclusion without more data! I can’t even examine the other bodies.. there’s no way they’ll let them be exhumed and re-examined.’’ He made a frustrated noise and then sighed again. John observed him warily.

‘’I’m sure something will crop up.’’, he said, because he _did_ want the case solved before anyone else died. Sherlock looked at him, a strange look passed over his face, gone in a second, and John was almost sure he’d imagined it.

‘’Let’s hope it isn’t another body.’’, he said softly. ‘’Will you accompany me back to my castle, John? I find I think better in your presence, strange as that is.’’

A day ago, John would have, and delightedly. Now, the thought of going to a secluded and ancient castle with this man made his head reel with terror. ‘’Actually, I, er.. I should probably go back to the inn.’’

Sherlock looked at him. ‘’I’m sure whatever plans you have for this evening can wait John.’’

‘’No, really. I must be getting back. So sorry, perhaps another time.’’ So saying John turned and left, not bothering to wait for Sherlock’s reply.

*****

John couldn’t sleep that night. He was lying on his side in his bed, staring into the darkness. He’d wanted to finish the book he’d been reading, but found his mind preoccupied. Besides, the vampire in the novel did nothing to soothe his uneasy mind.

He was sure that Sherlock could not be a vampire. They did not exist. ‘An undead creature who rises from the grave to feast on the blood of mortals’. Absolute rubbish, of course. But he was certain that Sherlock (and his brother as well, of course) _thought_ he was a vampire. Which could be just as dangerous. He shuddered at the thought of all those times he’d been alone with the man.. He’d been in John’s _room_ for God’s sake. He could have tried to suck John’s blood any moment (probably what Mycroft meant by ‘feeding’).

And their names…. Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. John supposed their parents had named them after their ancestors. Which probably helped in their delusion that they were vampires, believing themselves to be their ancestors who had survived centuries because they couldn’t die.

John sighed. It didn’t matter. He was truly lucky to have overheard their conversation. He wondered why Mycroft had thought him a problem, and why Sherlock had insisted he wasn’t. Perhaps, despite his praises (which he supposed couldn’t be trusted anyway, they had come from a madman), Sherlock didn’t think very highly of his intellectual and observational prowess, and therefore dismissed the idea of a threat. And perhaps Mycroft was just generally paranoid.

He shut his eyes, trying to coax himself to sleep. He would be leaving in a few days anyway. He didn’t have to see Sherlock at all. Today could have very well been the last he’d ever see of Sherlock Holmes. He was looking forward to it.

*****

The thought of leaving the town made John a bit sad. He liked it, it was quiet and peaceful but at the same time cheery and warm. He’d miss the people, of course, Mrs.Hudson and Mike Stamford and Lestrade. It had been a nice, relaxing holiday actually, except for that teensy smudge that botched up the whole picture- Sherlock Holmes. John was starting to rue the day he’d decided to go and check out the castle. But he supposed he would have just met Sherlock anyway, later, at the crime scene.

He wouldn’t be leaving that day. He was leaving the day after tomorrow, at dawn, because he wanted out as soon as possible without hurrying it too much. It was a lovely morning, so he decided to go for a walk. And unlike most of his other leisurely walks, this one would _not_ end in a trip to that infernal castle, he was sure of that.

He was in for a surprise, however, when he got back to the inn, feeling refreshed and happy. He entered his room, to find- nothing.

Well, not _nothing_ , there were the usual furnishings of the room; the bed, the table, the lamp, all of that which he had found when he had first come to this room. All of his items, however; his clothes, his trunk, his medical papers, even the novel he’d left on the bedside table; all of it had vanished.

On the table lay a slip of parchment, and on it, written in an elegant hand, _I will be in the Entrance Hall. Come alone._

Upon reading the note, John was filled, at first with cold fury- the _nerve_ of that man, John was going to _wring his neck_ \- followed almost immediately by sheer terror. This proved, without a doubt, that he was facing a maniac, a lunatic, a complete psychopath. Who now demanded that John meet him in a castle that no one other than three people had set foot in in over six hundred years.

John let out a shaky breath and sank down on the bed, breathing hard. Now, _now_ was more afraid than he’d ever been in his life. A hundred more times afraid than he’d been when he’d overheard that argument. He contemplated not going. He could just leave, couldn’t he? Perhaps say he’d been robbed, and borrow some money from Lestrade? It wouldn’t be lying, he _had_ been robbed. But Lestrade was a police officer, he’d ask questions. He’d apparently worked with Sherlock before- relied on his genius even- he would never believe it if John told him the man who solved his cases for him was a psychopath who apparently now wanted to kill John. He’d think John was the crazy one. And he couldn’t rely on anyone else in the town, they’d tell Lestrade.

Sherlock had left nothing behind. He needed his stuff back. He could take someone else, but Sherlock would probably have no issues killing whoever he took with him. But he hadn’t killed Lestrade…. All these years, he had not killed Lestrade. Why was that? It was probably because Lestrade gave him cases, which he obviously enjoyed. So perhaps if John took Lestrade with him….

No. He could not take risks. He would not be responsible for the death of an innocent person. Yes, he too was an innocent person. But he wasn’t going to draw a maniac’s attention to someone else just so he himself could (possible, thought very unlikely) get away. He had his army-issued revolver (he’d been keeping it on his person for the past two days), and he was no coward. He was going to face this monster, and if he came away worse for it, he’d just be glad he came away at all.

As he went downstairs he found Mrs.Turner. ‘’Oh, John! I thought you’d left. Did you forget something in your room?’’, she asked cheerily. John frowned. ‘’Er- yes. I did. Better be off now, thanks very much Mrs.Turner, I had a lovely time here.’’, he said.

She grinned and patted his cheek like a doting aunt. ‘’Oh it was nothing dear. Goodbye!’’ John smiled at her and left.

*****

He stood in front of the castle, staring up at it. It reminded him of the first day he had come here. He wished glumly that he had never come. He’d known, even then, that his curiosity would get the better of him one day. He was just hoping it would be some day when he was old and weak and it didn’t really matter all that much. He sighed and went in. No point in delaying, he was only making himself feel worse.

True to his word, Sherlock was waiting for him, seated on a long, plush sofa. He got up when John entered. “Ah John’’, he said. “So glad you followed my instructions.’’ His tone didn’t convey anything special, he said it as though John had done and errand or carried out an experiment which Sherlock had asked him to do.

John raised an eyebrow at him. “How do you know I haven’t brought anyone with me?’’.

Sherlock gave him a look that said ‘ _Really? You think you could fool me that easily? I expected better of you.’_ ‘’John. Please. We both know you wouldn’t drag someone unwittingly into what you deemed a ‘dangerous situation’”.

John looked at him, wondering if Sherlock knew that John knew something. “Sherlock I honestly don’t know _what_ you’re talking about-‘’

“John, did you really think I wouldn’t realize you knew? That I wouldn’t have noticed the way you’ve been looking at me these past few days, the way you hastened to be out of my sight and my company, how you so anxiously declined my invitation to accompany me to the castle?’’

John glared at him. ‘’What, exactly, is your point?’’

Sherlock looked at him. A flicker of amusement passed across his face. “Ahh, I see. You must have overheard a conversation between my dear brother and I,’’ he said. ‘’You surprise me, doctor. I did not expect such an invasion of privacy from a man like you- oh but of course, your name caught your attention, and then you found you couldn’t tear yourself away. Yes, I thought I noticed something in the opposite room, but in my annoyance did not pay it much heed.’’

John didn’t say anything, which Sherlock noticed immediately. His lips twitched. “You don’t believe what you heard, do you? You think we’re lunatics.’’ He stated it as a fact, which, of course, it was.

‘’Of course I don’t believe what I heard. Six hundred and seventy two years, my arse. But you’re not the first, there have been cases like you reported before. People who manage to convince themselves of things, who will not be dissuaded, and who start adopting typical mannerisms and characteristics of said things. So if I am afraid of you, it is because I fear a maniac, who has corrupted his mind, and would seek to harm those around him, believing himself to be that which he is not.’’, said John. His voice calm and steady, for that was the way to deal with maniacs. He stood straight, glaring defiantly at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled. “Excellent John. I would expect no less from you, a man of practicality and reason. It makes perfect sense, of course. And any way in which I would seek to prove to you that I am _not_ delusional, I actually _am_ that which I ‘believe’ myself to be, could be put down to, as you say, the fact that I have so convinced myself of it that I have adopted mannerisms and characteristics which are otherwise alien to me. Bravo, doctor.’’ His tone was that of a schoolteacher, praising a pupil who’s result is wrong, but reasoning quite thorough. Reprimanding and rewarding at the same time.

John decided not to argue with him. There was no point in doing so. “I am glad you agree with me, Sherlock. So now, if you will excuse me, I must be getting back.’’, so saying, he made for the door. Suddenly he found his path blocked. Sherlock’s face was now dark. The great wooden doors slammed behind him, without anyone having touched them. He towered over the doctor, and spoke in steely, icy tones, “I am not done with you, John. I cannot let you go back. You will let slip something, do not try to convince me otherwise! You are careless in your words, and a horrible liar. I cannot risk it. You will not leave, you cannot go back.’’

 _My god, he’s even worse than I assumed. Is this what a psychopath looks like?_ John was glad he’d brought his gun. His hand inched towards it, tucked away inside his coat as he stared at the man- monster- in front of him.

But Sherlock- _fucking damn him_ \- noticed. In one quick movement, he had seized the gun, throwing it away in the corner.

 _‘’Don’t you dare.’’_ , he snarled, looking more lethal, more cruel, than John had ever seen him. And now, without his gun, at the complete mercy of a madman, John was petrified. He knew what was coming, surely. He had realized it the minute the full meaning of Sherlock and Mycroft’s conversation hit him. He was going to die now.

Often we find, in novels, that when the protagonist realizes and accepts his impending and inevitable doom, he feels calm, satisfied. At peace with the world. This, sadly, did not happen with Dr.John H. Watson. Which, if you think about it, is satisfactory in a way- a nice deviation from cliché- and also very unfortunate. But of course, nothing could be done. He had no regrets, no living family, and frankly some small, annoying, and very odd part of his brain was telling him _at least you don’t have to attend that bloody conference._

Fortunately, surprisingly, Sherlock did not plan on killing him that day. His eyes were still dark and cruel, boring into John’s. ‘’You will stay here, in the castle. In rooms opposite mine.’’, he growled, his voice low. John blinked. He was still terrified, but now confused. ‘’What?’’, he asked, his voice (understandably) shaking.

Sherlock now looked at him as though he were being tedious. Which John was relieved for, as ‘ _oh god you’re stupid’_ was certainly a welcome change from _‘I will rip you apart with my bare hands and devour your flesh’_.(Though perhaps, in Sherlock’s case, _‘your blood’_ ). ‘’I cannot have you going back to the village. They think you’ve left for that conference, you received a telegram saying it was re-scheduled once more, for two days from now.’’

‘’No, but wait- you’re not going to kill me then?’’, John asked, wondering if it were all some massive joke, a hoax or something of the sort. Or perhaps he was dreaming. No, his dreams never got as weird as this.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “Do you want me to?’’, he asked. John shook his head vigorously. He doubted whether or not he wanted to be killed would have any effect on Sherlock, but it was nice to be able to give his opinion anyway. _Just so you know, I really don’t like this. Not that it matters. But just so you know._

‘’I thought not. No, doctor, you are safe.. for now.’’, his pause was not lost on John, who gulped again but decided ‘for now’ was better than nothing. Or was it? Was the suspense of it, not knowing which day, which moment, might be his last, living near a raving lunatic, really better than just getting it over with? He didn’t know, but, as he had realized earlier, he really had no say in the matter.

‘’So.. you’re just going to keep me here indefinitely then?’’, he asked, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t get annoyed by his questions and change his mind.

Sherlock smiled grimly. ‘’That too, remains to be seen. Follow me, John, I will now lead you to your quarters.’’

And John really had no say in the matter. He was trapped, as much as Jonathan Harker, only John knew he was dealing with a madman. Though he didn’t know if that was better or worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan Harker is the protagonist of 'Dracula'.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short-ish chapter, but the next one's quite long. Hope you like it!

Sherlock had noticed something was wrong almost immediately. It was obvious, even Lestrade had kept glancing towards John, a slightly confused and worried expression on his face. But Sherlock couldn’t exactly place _what_ was wrong. It was not an illness, John was clearly worried about something. Was it the medical conference, perhaps? No, it was something else…..

When John refused his invitation to go back to the castle with him, it had made him even more suspicious. John hadn’t done that before, he’d had no fear about going to an old castle with a stranger, so why was he afraid now? And he _was_ afraid. John was not a convincing liar, and an even worse actor, especially to someone like Sherlock. John was suddenly nervous around him, and he had no idea why. He suspected that this….change in John’s demeanour had occurred a few days ago, John hadn’t been so wary of him the last time they’d met. So something had happened in the past day or two. He’d been expecting the doctor to drop by the castle the day before…..

Well. That would make sense. He inwardly cursed Mycroft. For all he’d been going on about how Sherlock’s carelessness would get them found out, in the end it was an argument _he’d_ started that had given them away. Sherlock found himself pacing his room, working out a plan. John seemed cautious and wary, meaning he was probably still confused and disbelieving. He probably hadn’t told anyone anything yet. Sherlock smirked to himself. He’d always known that the easiest way to lie was to tell the truth. (Especially if the truth involves you being a centuries-old being commonly thought to be a knight of Hell). He realized then that maybe he didn’t have to do anything. John was doubtful himself, he wouldn’t tell anyone else and even if he did he’d be laughed at and dismissed. And he would leave for that useless medical conference in two days and that would be the end of it. He’d never see John Watson again.

But then he realized that _that_ was unacceptable. Sherlock didn’t know how or why, but the thought of never seeing John again left a strange, aching feeling. He didn’t like it at all, and decided that he would have to see a doctor. He had a specific one in mind.

*****

Sherlock glanced over at his table to the novel he’d found in John’s room. He’d flicked through it, he’d been intrigued by the vampire, wanting to know how humans portrayed his kind. They were even farther from the truth than they had been six hundred years ago, the vampirish characteristics of the Count in the novel were so ludicrous Sherlock was more amused than insulted. He simply wondered upon the plight of humanity, that was reduced to reading and writing such drivel. He did wonder though, if people really thought that way about vampires. If John thought that way.

It had been easy enough to break into John’s room at the inn. His room was only on the first floor, and not very high up. And there were enough cracks on the wall outside to make for foot and handholds. He was standing in the middle of the room, for the second time, and looked around. He would have to be quick. Luckily, John did not have many possessions; a trunk full of clothes, medical books and papers, and his wallet. Sherlock had already left a note with the landlady, explaining how John had had to leave earlier than expected.

The note was a last-minute decision, he’d considered simply just leaving, but was not entirely sure if John would think of him and come to the castle. But it had made a rather nice touch, if John’s expression and demeanour (he marvelled at how people could be such open books. It was fascinating, though, to watch the display of emotions across a person’s face, the way their innermost feelings filled their eyes; did they even realize it? Or did they simply not care?) when he came in was anything to go by.

All in all, he mused, with a small smile of grim satisfaction, the previous evening had gone rather well. He hadn’t been surprised to find that the good doctor thought him a psychopathic lunatic, in fact he’d been slightly expecting John to. John had no evidence to the contrary, after all. He didn’t know yet how he could make that work to his advantage, but he would find a way. He wasn’t going to kill John, not unless absolutely necessary. He didn’t really like killing people, it had sometimes happened accidentally during a feeding, and it was always such a bother to hide the body and the records afterwards, and make sure the death was not immediately noticed and never traced back to him. (And though he may never admit it, even to himself, there was a small part of him that didn’t like killing people because, it didn’t like killing people.)

Sherlock drew out his pocket watch and looked at the time. It was half-past eight. He got up, feeling that John had slept enough (if he had, in fact, slept at all), and went into the next room.

*****

John had not slept. That much was plainly obvious from the way his back (he was faced away from the door, and he hadn’t bothered to draw the curtains on the four-poster bed) tensed as Sherlock entered the room. He didn’t move though, clearly hoping to be left alone by feigning sleep.

‘’You’re insulting me by trying to fool me John. I know you’re awake,’’ Sherlock said, vaguely irritated.

John groaned and rolled over to face Sherlock. ‘’What? Feeling lonely in the morning? Or have you changed your mind and you’re going to kill me after all? Because if you’re going to kill me, you could have done it without disturbing me you know. Unless you want to ‘see the life leave my eyes’ or some other such bloody nonsense?’’ John snapped, sounding far more irritated than Sherlock, who was now starting to feel amused. He raised an eyebrow. ‘’No, John it’s time for my feeding. Position yourself so that you leave me access to your neck,’’ said Sherlock, meaning it to be sarcastic, but John’s eyes flared with alarm. Sherlock sighed. ‘’I’m _joking_ , John. You’re in no danger here.’’

‘’Says the man who thinks he’s a vampire,’’ muttered John, still looking unnerved. Sherlock rolled his eyes again. ‘’I give you my word. A vampire cannot go back on his word,’’ said Sherlock. It was something he vaguely recalled reading somewhere, utter nonsense of course, but John didn’t know that. John squinted at him suspiciously, but didn’t raise the issue further.

Sherlock sat down in the armchair next to the bed. ‘’We should talk.’’

John laughed. Sherlock frowned at him, indignant. ‘’What, pray, is so amusing?’’ he asked, rather stiffly, feeling slightly offended. John grinned at him. ‘’You are. You kidnap me, scare me half to death, threaten me, and then later come up here and say we have to talk. You certainly are mad,’’ he said, sounding both amused and rather indignant himself. Sherlock couldn’t help but grin sheepishly. ‘’Well that does sound insane,’’ he admitted.

John’s smile faded. ‘’But I suppose we do have to talk,’’ he said. “Are you going to keep me here indefinitely?’’

‘’Perhaps. You are not allowed to go beyond the outer walls for two weeks, people assume you are at the conference. After that… I will decide on whether or not to let you leave,’’ replied Sherlock. He’d decided all of this the night before. John raised an eyebrow at him. ‘’And if I decide to leave anyway?’’ he asked, his tone sceptical and annoyed.

‘’I will have no choice but to kill you and whoever you contacted,’’ said Sherlock simply. John glared at him. Sherlock sighed. ‘’Really, John. I meant it when I said you have nothing to fear if you cooperate. You will be left alone for the most part, you can go for walks around the castle, there’s a wood just behind, or you can stay holed up here and sulk. It is up to you.’’ Sherlock rose. ‘’Will you take your breakfast now? You must be hungry after last night’s…. excitement.’’ He left the room, breakfast already arranged for John in the dining room. He himself did not eat, of course. Behind him, he heard John sigh and follow him out.

*****

John was not so much afraid now as bloody furious. He was being holed up in a bloody castle by a raving lunatic and his brother. To say he was pissed would have been kind.

It was now five days since he’d been ‘taken prisoner’ as he thought of it. He was now sitting on an old tree stump in what Sherlock called ‘the garden’ but was actually more like an area of land where all manner of bushes and shrubs and trees had grown wild. It was quite calm and peaceful, however, and sitting here let John relax and unwind a bit, and also collect his thoughts.

The five days had been quite uneventful. Sherlock had, for the most part, stuck to his word and left him alone, though he had barged in John’s room once or twice with exclamations about the case (still unsolved, much to Sherlock’s chagrin). But John found that even these occasions were bearable, all he had to do was sit and nod and make the appropriate noises and give a few inputs here or there for Sherlock to dismiss and call him an idiot. He’d only seen Mycroft once, and the other man had simply raised an eyebrow at him and then walked away.

The castle was, luckily, quite well updated, with proper electricity and lighting replacing the old torches and candles. A few of the rooms were also well-maintained, the beds and furnishings were clearly old but still in usable condition. He was also given adequate food and drink, three meals a day and he could go into the kitchen whenever he wanted. The kitchen itself was not as well-kept as John would have expected, but it was clean enough and stocked with food. (He had an inkling suspicion that it was all stolen, but he didn't have enough evidence to be sure.) The utensils were ancient silver, which John thought was suspicious; if the two thought they were vampires, surely they wouldn't touch silver? Neither of the brothers ever ate with him, and if John didn’t know better he’d say they never ate at all (for all that vampire nonsense, surely human blood alone is not enough). Or consume anything (he’d never actually _seen_ either of them drink or eat anything, even blood), for that matter. John had once asked Sherlock to join him for a bottle of wine (which looked as though it was old as the castle itself, and should therefore have quite a taste), at which Sherlock had smiled strangely and said in an ominous voice, “Oh, I don’t drink….. _wine.’’_

So, it all seemed perfectly normal, other than these few odd things, and would have been perfectly alright if John wasn’t being kept here against his will and forbidden from stepping outside the castle boundaries, large and wide as they were.

He heard a slight rustling behind him and sat up a little straighter. ‘’Sherlock? What do you want?’’ he called.

Sherlock strode forward until he was standing in front of John, looking irate. ‘’There’s absolutely _nothing_ new with the case!’’ he spat. ‘’ _Nothing._ No new developments _at all_. It’s as if the murderer suddenly decided to just abandon it!’’ he growled, pacing up and down in frustration. ‘’And there’s nothing more with what we already have, I’ve been going over it incessantly, it just doesn’t make sense!’’ He stopped glaring at a bush as though the whole thing were all its fault.

John raised an eyebrow. ‘’And what am I supposed to do about it? I can’t even go beyond the castle boundaries,’’ he said calmly.

Sherlock turned to him, looking slightly uncomfortable. ‘’I know, John, I’m not an idiot, it’s just- nevermind,’’ he grumbled and stormed away. John sighed, feeling slightly guilty. The man evidently just needed to get his frustration out. ‘’Sherlock wait,’’ he called, already wondering if he’d regret this later. ‘’Come back!’’ The figure ahead of him stopped, then turned and slowly walked back and stopped before John. Sherlock looked at him questioningly, but didn’t say anything. John stood up. It was getting dark anyway, time to go back inside. ‘’Tell me what you have so far. I can help you look for things, maybe you’re missed something,’’ he said. Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘’By which you mean you will mess up the whole thing with your inane questions and stupid doubts and irrelevant theories,’’ he said, but he looked at John expectantly as he turned and walked away again. John smiled slightly, and followed.

*****

Sherlock led the way into the castle grumbling the whole time about the case. As it turned out, they did manage to get one body exhumed, (‘’Oh so there _was_ a development,’’ grumbled John, feeling a little upset that he wasn’t there) and a post-mortem was conducted by a young lady (John would have been surprised at this a month ago, now, with all the other weirdness in his life, he just shrugged it aside and mentally applauded the evident progress of women), Molly Hooper, who claimed she had died of aconite poisoning. The same as the woman they’d found. Sherlock (rather grudgingly, John thought) said she was right.

They stopped outside an ornately carved door, with a raven door knocker. John examined it with interest, moving in front of Sherlock to look more closely at it and preventing him from opening the door. ‘’This looks beautiful,’’ he said. Sherlock huffed behind him. ‘’Yes, whatever, open the door,’’ he said. John frowned at it. ‘’You haven’t brought me here before. What room is this?’’

‘’My room. Obviously.’’ John could feel the irritated ‘why must I suffer with you idiots’ radiating off Sherlock, so he hastily stepped out of the way and let Sherlock open the door.

His room was….both everything and nothing at all like John had expected Sherlock’s room to be. There was a four-poster bed pushed in one corner, as well as a large desk with a chair. Bookshelves took up one wall entirely, from floor to ceiling, completely covered with books. On the ceiling was a large chandelier, but electric lights were fitted on the walls (despite the age of the castle, it had modern equipment and technology, something John was grateful for). There were papers strewn everywhere, books piled up here and there as well, as there was no space for them on the bookshelves. A small pile of papers had been speared to the mantelpiece with a knife, and next to them- ‘’That’s a real human skull.’’

‘’I know, John. I too, possess eyes and atleast an adequate amount of intelligence.’’

John smirked. ‘’That’s the most modest I’ve ever heard you be.’’

‘’Good. Modesty is tedious, if others cannot deal with my superiority, that is their problem and I see no reason as to why I must dumb myself down for them or fail to acknowledge my skills and prowess.’’

John smiled. ‘’Well, when you put it that way, I suppose, in a weird sort of way, you’re right,’’ he said, turning to Sherlock, who looked momentarily surprised before he turned to a wall which had been plastered with notes, a few photographs, and hand-drawn diagrams, all of which pertained to the case, John noticed.

They spent the next five hours going over the details, and discussing possibilities and theories (all of John’s were blatantly dismissed), and then John, tired and slightly irritated (you’d be too if you were called an idiot 16 times in five hours, in various words and possibly even a few other languages), despite the fact that he was actually having fun (he really, really was) looked at the notes Sherlock had made on the poison with which they were killed. ‘’Aconite,’’ he muttered. ‘’Why aconite? Bloody medieval poisons.’’

Sherlock sighed and flicked his wrist in a general dismissing gesture, not really listening. Suddenly he whirled around. ‘’John!’’ he yelled, seizing John up by his arms.

‘’Wha-‘’

‘’-Of course! Wait, no, not of course, a possibility though, yes, very possible,’’ Sherlock muttered, ignoring John and muttering to himself excitedly. John was confused. ‘’Sherlock, what are you-‘’

Sherlock looked at him and grinned. ‘’You’re not a genius, John, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable!’’

John wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or annoyed, but he hardly ever was when it came to Sherlock, so, as always, he settled for ‘mildly pleased’. ‘’Ta very much thanks. What are you on about?’’

Sherlock beamed at him, clapping his hands together in excitement. ‘’I can’t be sure, of course. But it is possible. It’ll take some time to test, and I might be wrong, but there is something-‘’ Sherlock trailed off, and then suddenly looked at John piercingly, all traces of joy and excitement gone. Now he looked grave and serious. ‘’Get out,’’ he said. His voice was clear and shrewd. John was more confused now. ‘’What? Why?’’

‘’I need to go to my mind palace,’’ said Sherlock, and then turned away from him, sitting down in the armchair. John sighed. Sherlock had mentioned his ‘mind palace’ to John before- it was some sort of memory technique, he had stored away every bit of information in what John had realized was a literal virtual palace in Sherlock’s mind. He could also apparently delete data, as he ‘didn’t want his head cluttered with useless bits of information’. John sighed and looked at his pocket watch. It was five minutes past midnight. He glanced once more at Sherlock, who was now seated with his hands steepled under his chin as though in prayer with a glazed expression on his face. He left the room and entered his own, too tired to really think about anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aconite is also called wolfsbane or monkshood (I was momentarily lost in Harry's first potions class while typing) and is a highly toxic plant indigenous to England.  
> Please review! And come follow me on Tumblr, my url is pandabirdsrock. =D


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All your lovely comments and kudos really make my day, thank you so much! <3 ^.^

Two weeks feels like an eternity, especially if you’re being held in an ancient castle with two psychopaths, something John Watson found out from experience*.

_*Looking back, years later, it was pointed out to him that it wasn’t so bad, he was still allowed out of the castle, which was updated with modern facilities and not actually half as rotten as it looked, and he was provided adequate and excellent food and wasn’t bored, and so he was just being unnecessarily melodramatic about it, at which John would call out his accuser for talking about ‘unnecessary melodrama’, and would grudgingly concede that alright, fine, it wasn’t so bad, after all, it had certain consequences which had led to certain events which had in turn led to his present life, so perhaps it was decidedly worth it._

So he was glad to be out in a neighbouring village (a different one than last time, there were five or six villages clustered together in this particular part of the countryside), at the local police officer’s office, talking about an unusual burglary that had happened last week, and last night a man had been killed (the previous case having been put on temporary hiatus, as Sherlock had been unable to get anywhere further with it, much to his chargin). Nothing had been taken other than a ball of twine, an odd volume of Pope's Homer, two plated candlesticks, an ivory letter-weight, and a small oak barometer. The man who had been killed was the coachman of the house next door to the one that had been burgled.

The case was wild from start to finish. The dead man, William Kirwan, had been in the employ of the Cunninghams for years. According to Inspector Dimmock, Mr.Alec Cunningham had been smoking in his study, and Mr.Cunningham had gone to bed. They had heard a shot and a cry, and Mr.Alec Cunningham had looked out the window and seen a figure running away through the hedge. The inspector was inclined to believe it was the same burglar who had broken into Mr.Acton’s house last week. Sherlock looked interested at this, and asked the connection between the Acton’s house and the Cunningham’s. Dimmock had said there was some dispute over the land, Mr.Acton apparently owned half of the Cunninghams’, and had been away to the city to discuss the matter with his lawyers the day he had been burgled.

Sherlock had initially dismissed the case, but showed interest now there was a murder involved. He insisted on going to meet the Cunninghams, and looking at the crime scene for himself. John, aching for a change of scene, happily agreed to go along when Sherlock asked.

They had first gone to police headquarters, where the body was kept as well, before going to the scene of the crime. The coachman had been shot by a small calibre bullet, according to the police, and confirmed by Sherlock. According to the Cunninghams, he had been shot at close range and had been seen struggling with the thief, who had shot him and run away before he could be apprehended. The police had found a small slip of paper in his grip, clearly torn away from a note. It said nothing but the time, ‘at quarter to twelve’, yet Sherlock seemed greatly interested in it.

Then they had gone to meet the Cunninghams. Mr. Gordon Cunningham and his son, Alec, were the sole occupants of the house, and William had lived in a small cottage on the estate.

*****

‘’Oh, so you’re Mr.Sigerson,’’ said Mr.Cunningham, squinting at Sherlock suspiciously. John, who had forgotten that this was Sherlock’s name in public (and indeed, very possibly his real name, although personally John preferred ‘Holmes’), was momentarily confused before he remembered.

Sherlock smiled and extended his hand. ‘’Yes I am. Nasty business isn’t it?’’

Mr.Cunningham scowled. ‘’It is indeed, and I have enough going on with the moment without all manner of people barging into my house-‘’

‘’-But he can help us find William’s killer, father,’’ interrupted a young man, clearly Alec Cunningham.

The old man sighed. ‘’Alright then, come in.’’

Sherlock smiled pleasantly and followed them into the house.

John noticed, as they went on, that he was behaving quite oddly. Or perhaps this was how he always behaved, John wouldn’t really know. The inspector was talking to them about the case, ‘’We don’t have much on at the moment, but we did find a-‘’

‘’Sherlock! Are you alright?’’ John had suddenly noticed that Sherlock’s features had suddenly contorted.

The inspector abruptly stopped speaking and they all stared in shock as Sherlock started convulsing horribly, and fell to the ground with a slight gasp of pain. John’s eyes widened and he dropped to his knees beside him immediately, taking his pulse. It was slightly erratic, and seemed both slower and faster than normal at the same time. They all carried him into the sitting room (Mr.Cunningham rather reluctantly) and laid him down on the couch. After a moment or two, he opened his eyes.

‘’My apologies,’’ he said, looking around at them and registering their shocked faces. ‘’I am rather susceptible to heat stroke, I am afraid. I do apologise for any inconvenience.’’

‘’Oh, no it’s quite alright Mr. Sigerson,’’ replied Mr. Cunningham. ‘’These- episodes- happen often?’’

‘’More so than I’d like,’’ replied Sherlock cheerfully. John narrowed his eyes at him. There was something off…..

‘’Perhaps you ought to go home, then?’’ asked Mr. Cunningham.

‘’No,’’ said Sherlock, still smiling. ‘’Kind of you to inquire after my health, though, Mr. Cunningham. But I am already here, I might as well make the most of it. May I see the study, please?’’

‘’Why would you go there?’’ asked the inspector.

John could see Sherlock restrain himself from rolling his eyes. And frowned inwardly. Since when had he been an expert on reading Sherlock Holmes (Sigerson-no. definitely not)? Perhaps he had been around the man too much.

‘’That’s where young Mr. Alec was sitting when William was killed, was it not?’’ asked Sherlock, a slight bite of irritation in his voice that both the inspector and Mr. Cunningham missed.

‘’Well, yes, but I fail to see the relevance-‘’

‘’Brilliant. If you would lead the way, Mr. Cunningham,’’ said Sherlock, his dismissive tone registering with the others quite well this time, and sprang off the couch with the agility of a man who had most certainly _not_ just fallen victim to what could be classified as a ‘stroke’. John was more suspicious.

They spent the next half-hour (John was timing) in the study, where Sherlock spent the time jumping across to seemingly random areas of the room, with that excited glint in his eye that John had noticed on that first case. After which Sherlock demanded to be taken upstairs to examine the bedrooms, which Mr. Cunningham protested at first, but relented in the end when his son gently reminded him again of their dead coachman.

After his careful inspection (only fifteen minutes this time) he announced that he had stumbled upon some interesting points.

‘’Why would a burglar try to break into a house with its lights still on?’’ he asked, with a look in his eye that made John suspect that Sherlock already knew the answer. ‘’And through a window just a few rooms away from said light?’’

Everyone else glanced at each other, then at the floor, and then finally back at Sherlock, not quite sure what to say, or (in John’s case) whether the question was rhetorical and just an excuse for Sherlock to call someone an idiot.

‘’Perhaps he was rather cocky, we don’t know,’’ said Alec, sounding slightly put off.

‘’Perhaps,’’ agreed Sherlock (not ‘excuse to call someone an idiot’ then. John didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed, which slightly scared him, which in turn slightly scared him because it only slightly scared him. And now his brain was running on a loop. Bugger.)

‘’Now see here, Mr. Sigerson,’’ said Mr. Cunningham. ‘’My son and I are quite at a loss for what to do. William had been in our service for seven years, he was a close friend. We are entirely in your hands. Either you or the inspector must tell us what to do, and we will do it.’’

Sherlock gave him a broad smile, which faded away suddenly as he became business-like and serious once more. There was still that look in his eye, however. ‘’I propose that you put out an award, Mr. Cunningham,’’ he said. ‘’It is probably the quickest way to catch the thief, by involving the local people. I have, in fact, already written it here, if you would just look it over and sign it, it could be in the morning newspaper.’’ He drew out a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Mr. Cunningham.

‘’Well, this seems to be in order, Mr. Sigerson. Except for one small thing,’’ said Mr. Cunningham, looking up at Sherlock with slight amusement. Sherlock looked at him expectantly. Mr. Cunningham gave a small smile before saying, ‘’You have written here, ‘at a quarter to one last night’ and so on, but it was really a quarter to twelve.’’

John wondered how Sherlock would take this. He expected him to either sulk at having made a mistake, or roll his eyes at them and say they were all so stupid, and give some insane reason for having written ‘quarter to one’ instead of ‘quarter to twelve’. Instead, he looked even more excited at this, and looked at Mr. Cunningham with an almost predatory look. ‘’Ah. My mistake. If you would be so kind as to fix it, then.’’ (Another error on John’s judgement of Sherlock. He was relieved, because this meant he hadn’t been around the man too much. And now he was feeling slightly put out, because it would have been nice if he were the only one to read Sherlock correctly, at almost all times. Which slightly scared him. Which led him back to that loop again. _Fuck!_ )

The error was fixed, and the paper handed back to Sherlock as the others turned to leave the room. Sherlock looked at it, and having read it looked up at John with a broad grin, almost vibrating with excitement. He then reached over and knocked over a vase from the small table next to John, which fell with a loud thud that caused the others to pause and turn around.

‘’John, look what you’ve done. The mess you’ve made of the carpet!’’ he said coolly. John glared at him and bent to pick up the vase (which hadn’t broken, luckily) and the half-wilted flowers.

‘’So sorry, Mr. Cunningham,’’ said John, figuring he better go with this. ‘’I can be quite clumsy at times.’’

‘’Oh it’s fine,’’ said Mr. Cunningham, looking and sounding as though it were anything other than fine. ‘’Hey, where’s that man got to?’’

John looked around. Sherlock was, indeed, nowhere to be seen. Giving a noise of frustration, Mr. Cunningham walked briskly back up the stairs, his son following close behind.

‘’He seems quite mad doesn’t he? Is it because of his stroke?’’ asked Inspector Dimmock. John shrugged, when suddenly from upstairs there came a strangled cry for help. Both of them were up the stairs in an instant, to find Sherlock pinned down by the two Cunninghams, the elder twisting Sherlock’s wrists behind his back, the younger with his hands round Sherlock’s neck. They let go immediately when they saw John and Dimmock.

‘’Arrest these men, Dimmock,’’ gasped Sherlock, rubbing at his throat. ‘’On charge of the murder of William Kirwan.’’

John and Dimmock gaped at him. Sherlock sighed and held out a piece of paper. ‘’The other part of the note you found, Inspector, which I found in the pocket of this gentleman’s dressing gown. Combined with their guilty faces’’- they did indeed, look supremely guilty, a jury would have convicted them immediately without a second thought-‘’should be enough evidence for you to arrest them now. I will explain the rest after you have brought Mr. Acton; he should certainly hear this.’’

As it turned out, the Cunninghams had broken into Acton’s house with the intention of stealing the legal documents that gave him the rights to half the Cunninghams’ land, but had not been able to find them, and so had made away with whatever objects they could get their hands on, making it seem like a very odd burglary. The coachman, William, had found out about this in some way, and had been blackmailing them. To get rid of him, they had arranged the meeting, when Alec Cunningham shot him. It was Alec who was the mastermind of the whole thing, as Sherlock pointed out by explaining something about the writing of the slip of the note the police had found. Sherlock had confirmed that it was the Cunninghams who wrote the note when he asked Mr. Cunningham to correct his reward notice. The slight difference in writing, and the similarity of it at the same time, had told Sherlock that two people, a younger and an elder, both related, had written the note, and the dominance of the younger handwriting had told him that Alec was in charge of the whole thing. Sherlock also explained that his ‘heat stroke’ had been feigned, to stop Dimmock from mentioning the note they had found, which he had been about to do at the time. John had to admit, that from a medical point of view, it was very well done. Sherlock was clearly a gifted actor, though John didn’t know how he’d changed his pulse too. Perhaps it was the excitement of the case and the act.

‘’Brilliant,’’ said John, unable to stop himself. Sherlock gave him a small smile, his eyes proud and smug, but at the same time warm. John smiled back.

Then, Mr. Cunningham blurted, ‘’Yes, yes! It’s all true! He did it, not me, it was all his plan!’’

‘’Will you shut up, you old fool!’’ yelled back the son, his previously calm and passive face now contorted with fury as he was outed by his father.

‘’Now, that’s quite enough,’’ said Dimmock, standing and drawing out a pair of handcuffs. ‘’Don’t talk to your father that way; and you, you’re still in trouble. I’ll be taking your son in first, but I’ll be back for you later this evening, and I’m leaving one of my men here, so don’t think you can escape.’’

He pushed Alec in front of him and walked down the stairs, as John and Sherlock rose to follow. Mr. Cunningham scowled fiercely at Sherlock as they passed, but didn’t say anything. Sherlock simply brushed past him, hardly acknowledging his presence, which seemed to anger the old man further. John stepped neatly in front of him, glaring back, and Mr. Cunningham shrunk back against the wall with a resigned look on his face. John turned and followed the others downstairs.

*****

‘’Hey where did Sherlock go?’’ asked John, looking around as he stepped outside the house. The man had been in front of him just a minute ago, and had now disappeared.

‘’Oh, he went back into the house. Said he forgot something. Well, we’d best be off, then. Thank him for me will you?’’ Dimmock smiled and shook John’s hand before walking away, Alec in tow. John smiled back and turned toward the house.

‘’Sherlock?’’ he called, looking around. Blast the man- why was he being so difficult? And why did John care? He could just leave, it wouldn’t matter, and God knew that’s probably what Sherlock would do. But John didn’t. Instead he went upstairs, thinking that perhaps Sherlock was in one of the rooms.

He wandered around, sighing in exasperation and wondering to himself why he didn’t just say to hell with it and leave. Then he looked into the next room.

The elder Mr.Cunningham was draped over a chair, dead or unconscious John didn’t know. Bent over his neck, sucking at his pulse point, was Sherlock Holmes. John might have gasped (though he didn’t remember anything other than shock at the time), and Sherlock looked up, realizing the presence of someone else in the room. His lips were red with blood, which he wiped off with a handkerchief he took from his pocket, looking at John with an unreadable expression. John stood there, frozen to the spot, staring at the scene before him, not quite sure what to do. Then, after a moment,

‘’You have fangs,’’ he blurted out.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. ‘’Yes,’’ he said, sounding amused. Which was understandable, as John had just witnessed Sherlock drinking a man’s blood and didn’t say anything other than to point out that he had fangs. He assumed his brain was so shocked at this point that it had momentarily stopped working.

‘’You didn’t have them before!’’ John exclaimed, while at the same time wondering how the hell that mattered.

‘’They’re retractable, of course,’’ replied Sherlock, still amused. John stared at Mr.Cunningham, shock slowly being replaced with dread and fear. ‘’Is he-‘’ he started, then gulped and trailed off.

‘’Oh, he’s not dead; simply unconscious. A pinch to the subclavian artery,’’ Sherlock sounded slightly bored now, as though they were talking about the weather.

John was still not sure of what was going on with him. ‘’You were-‘’ He inwardly cursed himself, and wondered why he could talk about fangs but couldn’t bring himself to talk about the fact that the man he’d been living with for the past two weeks had been drinking blood. Or simply just run ten thousand kilometres away from him.

Sherlock sighed, as though John had stated that the sky was blue. ‘’Yes, I was drinking his blood. He wouldn’t have been my first choice, the younger one would have been better, but they hauled him off, and I haven’t fed in three weeks.’’

John seemed to have regained some amount of control over his limbs now, so he walked over and checked the man’s pulse. ‘’He’s still alive,’’ he announced. Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘’Yes, that’s what I just told you, John. Contrary to popular belief, we almost never kill while feeding. And we don’t take too much, either. I should say we have about five more minutes before he wakes up, we ought to get going.’’

John stared at him. ‘’He’ll.. be alright then?’’

Sherlock nodded. ‘’A little woozy, perhaps, but otherwise perfectly alright. Now come on, John, it wouldn’t do for him to wake up and find us.’’ So saying he swept out of the room, and John, still feeling highly disconcerted, followed.

By the time he’d got down, Sherlock had already mounted his horse. He galloped a steady ten yards ahead of John on the way back to castle, leaving John enough time to collect his thoughts and come to the conclusion that the universe was against him and had been from the very beginning. He was, at this point, more irritated than anything else. Blast it all, why couldn’t things just be normal? He’d been expecting a nice, relaxing few days in the countryside, and then a dreadfully dull medical conference where no one would discuss medical things so much as start fighting amongst themselves on who was a better doctor, and who’s practices were outdated, and who was swindling money off their clients, and so on, and then back to his home in London, in Baker Street, where he had a quiet little practice where he faced hardly anything more dangerous or exciting than a mother insisting her son had the plague instead of a cold (though, to be fair, those were quite dangerous. And scary.).

And he was irritated with himself too, because he hated that, it was so dreadfully dull, and now interesting things were happening, but he was very likely going to get himself killed, but he found he didn’t really care about that at the moment, focusing instead on the revelation that the man who, in the last few weeks, had come the closest thing to what John Watson might call a friend (you see why he was annoyed?) was indeed a vampire.

They got back to the castle, and by the time John had reached the stables Sherlock had already put away his saddle and bridle and things and his horse was resting in his stall. John sighed and quickly put his own horse away, stopping to pat his head and ask it what the hell his life was. The horse was not much helpful, it simply tossed its chestnut head and gave John a look that said ‘ _well go and find out you idiot. Also why are you asking me, I’m a horse.’_ So John sighed and went back to the castle.

When he entered, he found Sherlock waiting in the Entrance Hall, and he suddenly felt a strong sense of déjà vu, remembering that time two weeks ago. He’d been about to confront Sherlock on the topic of being a vampire then too. Sherlock studied him with those sharp verdigris eyes for a moment. Then he stood.

‘’You’ve got questions.’’ He sounded like it was just something to get over with, which only fuelled John’s irritation.

‘’Of course I’ve got questions!’’ John yelled. ‘’You’re a bloody vampire!’’

‘’Well, yes. Is that all, or do you wish to state more obvious things about me?’’

John stared at him. Then something clicked, something he remembered from what seemed ages and ages ago, but was in fact just a month. ‘’That painting I saw- I wondered- it looked exactly like you, and I thought it odd at the time, because how could it have been such a strong likeness if you were a descendant six hundred years down the line?’’ he said.

Sherlock looked confused for a moment. ‘’What paint- oh. That one. Yes, you’re quite right. If I was a _descendant_ of Sherlock Sherrinford Holmes, I would look almost nothing like him. I did wonder how you found out about my.. lineage. Church records?’’ he said, sounding slightly impressed.

John nodded. ‘’So.. you’re really six hundred and seventy two years old.’’

‘’Yes.’’

‘’And you’re a vampire.’’

‘’Yes.’’

‘’And so is Mycroft.’’

‘’Obviously.’’

John paused. ‘’Should I be scared now?’’

Sherlock smiled at him. ‘’No. I have no intention of hurting you, and neither does Mycroft. You’ll be quite alright.’’

John paused again. ‘’I was still half-right though,’’ he said, slightly triumphant.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, slightly amused. ‘’Oh?’’

John smiled. ‘’You’re still a raving lunatic.’’

Sherlock grinned back. ‘’Perhaps.’’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case in this is 'The Adventure of Reigate Square'. Not exactly my favourite of the ACD stories, but I thought it was perfect for this situation.  
> Follow me on Tumblr! My url's pandabirdsrock.  
> Hope you liked it! Please review! =D


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your LOVELY comments and kudos!

''Can I ask you questions now''?

John and Sherlock were sitting together in Sherlock's room, John reading one of the ancient books from Sherlock's collection and Sherlock conducting some experiment that involved sheep's blood and rhododendron essence (John really didn't want to know).

It had been a week since the case, which John had written down and titled 'The Adventure of Reigate Square' (he was bored, and Lestrade had said it was fine, it wasn't as though John would be publishing them or anything), which Sherlock had scoffed at and proclaimed 'ridiculous'. They hadn't brought up the fact that John now knew that Sherlock was a six hundred and seventy two year old vampire. John had a ton of questions, but whenever he hinted at wanting to discuss it Sherlock had made it quite clear (in his own way, which would have been confusing to anyone else, but John was getting rather good at reading him) that he hadn't wanted to, so John had left it. It wasn't as it it made things all that different anyway. John had initially been surprised at how well he was taking things, but had then decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and settled for being glad that he hadn't broken down in fright and shock. But it had been a week, and John was bursting with doubts and queries. Firstly, it was obvious that Sherlock wasn't like the vampires he'd read about (apart from the old castle and all the dramatics), so he wanted to know exactly how he was different, and if Sherlock was simply an anomaly or if mankind had been getting things wrong about vampires for centuries (he strongly suspected the latter).

Across the room, Sherlock sighed irritably but looked up from the sheep's blood. "Alright then, get it over with," he grumbled.

"You don't shrivel up in the sun," John pointed out.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's not a question, that's a statement."

"Why don't you?"

Sherlock looked at him with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. "Because vampires _don't_ shrivel up in the sun, John. Just like we don't turn into bats, and we can't possess people, and we are certainly not reanimated corpses. Also, simply just getting bit by a vampire won't turn you, and as I have demonstrated, we don't usually kill when we feed. Humans have been after us for centuries, millennia even, romanticizing us in all sorts of ways. And the stories have just gotten wilder over the years. When I was turned, I have to admit how surprised I was by many things, and ideas were far closer to the truth then than they are now. Next you'll be saying we sparkle or some other such nonsense."

John huffed in indignance. "Well, it's not as though we get to study you and draw conclusions. Vampires are thought to be fictional creatures. Everything that people say, the stories, are mainly out of people's imaginations, probably based on highly exaggerated accounts of one or two incidences. You have to give us credit if we get even just one or two things right."

Sherlock shrugged and turned back to his experiment, clearly already loosing interest in the conversation.

John hesitated, carefully phrasing his next question. "So.. how _do_ you get turned, then?"

"There are ways," Sherlock replies, not bothering to look up. John noticed the finality in his tone and decided to drop it. He went back to reading his book. Ten minutes later, he realized he was still reading the same line.

*****

Sherlock had to admit (to himself at least) that he was a tad uneasy now that John knew he really was a vampire. He wasn't sure how the doctor would take it, though so far he seemed fine. It was certainly a good sign that he hadn't tried to ambush him with garlic or a silver knife or some other such nonsense. Anyone with a decently functioning sense of smell would be repulsed by the smell of garlic, Sherlock mused, and if you chuck a silver knife at anyone's heart of course you would get a fatal wound. (And yes, vampires could certainly bear the touch of silver as much as the next person, Sherlock wasn't sure how that theory even originated). He hoped, however, that John wouldn't get frightened and run away, though frankly the idea that the brave and dignified doctor would do anything of the sort was positively ludicrous.

Mycroft, of course, was acting condescendingly smug about the whole situation.

"I _did_ warn you, brother dear," he said in that patronizing tone he knew would drive Sherlock up the wall.

"Yes, thanks ever so much for your warning, Mycroft. Need I remind you that it was a discussion _you_ had insisted on having that resulted in me being forced to keep John here?" Sherlock snapped back. Six hundred years of this was utter _hell._

Mycroft had raised an eyebrow at that. "A discussion which simply led him to think we were dangerous madmen. He would have left a few days after that, and have been all too glad to do so. It was _you_ who decided to prevent his leaving."

He was right, and Sherlock knew it, and that only flared up his anger further. "There is no harm done," he said through grit teeth. "He hasn't done something stupid out of fear or confusion yet"- " _Yet_ being the key word," inserted Mycroft - "And he will stay here."

"Indefinitely?" asked Mycroft. "You will keep him here till the end of his days? You assume he will _let_ you keep him here?"

These were logical points, and Sherlock had indeed considered them, but somehow hearing them from Mycroft made him brush them aside. "Let me -and him- be, Mycroft. At the moment, there is no situation. When one arises, I will deal with it, you needn't haul yourself off your arse for the second time this century to bother about this."

Mycroft gave him one last look, that told Sherlock he would most certainly meddle more, and Sherlock ought not to make the mistake of thinking he'd won this, and had then, mercifully, left him alone. Sherlock strode over to the window, the prickling, irritating feeling he always got in Mycroft’s presence slowly ebbing away, to be replaced by a heavy feeling of unease. He would never admit it to Mycroft, but he didn’t know how to deal with the situation. He didn’t know how John felt, what he thought, anything. John had brought it up a few times, but Sherlock had given blunt, curt replies and John had thankfully not pushed the topic further.

That night, however, Sherlock knew he couldn’t ignore John’s doubts forever. He’d answered John’s questions, and frankly, it hadn’t been all that bad. Until Sherlock had let slip that he had been turned, and now John had more questions. But Sherlock wasn’t too worried. He wouldn’t have to answer these, they were personal and John wouldn’t ask too many if he thought he was making Sherlock feel uncomfortable anyway.

He heard a rustle of clothing and the soft clinking of metal and realized John was looking at his pocket watch. Sure enough, John stood up after a moment.

‘’Er-‘’

Sherlock looked up. John was looking at him, evidently meaning to ask him something more, but wondering whether questions were welcome. Sherlock waited.

‘’So, do you lot sleep in the day then?’’

Sherlock smirked. ‘’No. Those stories came up because it’s easier to hunt in the dark than in broad daylight, and so it’s preferable to sleep in the daytime. We can go without sleep for longer periods of time than humans, but we do still need rest. I don’t usually sleep that much at all, unless absolutely necessary, because it’s boring and gets in the way of other things I could do.’’

John grinned at him. ‘’Ah. Well, I’m going to turn in. Goodnight, Sherlock.’’

Sherlock found himself smiling back. ‘’Goodnight, John.’’

*****

‘’So if you’re an immortal vampire, why are you and Mycroft still here in this old castle?’’

Sherlock smiled at John’s querying tone. He’d been asking random questions ever since two nights ago, when they’d first talked about the fact that Sherlock was a vampire. Sherlock had found he really didn’t mind, especially as John never showed signs of disgust or fear, just genuine interest and curiosity.

‘’Well, first of all, John, vampires are far from immortal. We simply lead longer lives. To a bee, for example, humans are immortal.’’

‘’So we’re all bees to you?’’ asked John, his tone light and teasing.

Sherlock smiled. ‘’Certainly. You’re weaker, have far shorter lifespans, and at most times are a nuisance but still necessary.’’

John laughed. ‘’I wonder if bees make up ridiculous stories about us, as we do to vampires.’’

‘’No doubt, John. Though frankly they’re far more hardworking and observant than many of you.’’

John laughed harder, and Sherlock found himself joining in, powerless to resist. He realized he had really come to enjoy John’s company.

They finally calmed down a bit after a while. ‘’To answer your question, John, I have travelled far and wide, I’ve been around the entire globe in fact, but you find that after over six hundred years, there’s only so much to see and do. So I came back here, just recently in fact. About a year ago. Mycroft, on the other hand, is extremely lazy, and despises humans, (he did even when he was one, actually) and so even though he’s done a fair bit of travelling himself, he prefers to stay either here or in London. He’s always been part of the British Parliament, in fact.’’

‘’Really?’’ John asked. ‘’Is that why he sounded as though he’d swallowed a file on me when we first met?’’

‘’He does love to show off. Probably caused that war in the first place,’’ Sherlock grumbled.

‘’Oh for Heaven’s sake, Sherlock, I hold a _minor_ position in the British government,’’ said Mycroft from the doorway. Sherlock had heard him approach but had chosen to ignore it.

‘’Ignore him. He practically _is_ the British government. And before that, he was practically the entirety of the King's Royal Court.’’

John raised an eyebrow at Mycroft, looking rather unimpressed. Sherlock suddenly felt very smug. He turned to Mycroft. “What do you want?’’ he snapped.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his tone, as he always did, even after six hundred and seventy two years.

“Are you aware it’s been two weeks since you fed?’’ he asked, in that annoying reprimanding tone he used whenever he felt Sherlock had been particularly reckless.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘’Are you aware it’s only been two days since you last fed, and yet you’re clearly hungry again?’’ He didn’t want to discuss his feeding habits in front of John. The doctor had simply taken it all in his stride so far, but Sherlock didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. And hunting and feeding were usually very disturbing to humans. He himself had been quite repulsed the first time he’d done it, and had tried not to feed again, until the hunger had become unbearable. Since then, Sherlock had quite come to terms with his vampire instincts, but he was aware that some of his more animalistic traits might make John uncomfortable.

“I suppose, not being as immortal as we think you are, you need to feed regularly, to keep yourselves from starving?’’ asked John. He didn’t look too concerned, apart from eyeing Mycroft rather warily, but then everyone did that, so Sherlock was relieved.

‘’You needn’t worry, doctor. As my brother has no doubt already assured you, you need not fear us,” Mycroft said smoothly.

John gave him a tight-lipped smile. “I wasn’t worried. Simply curious,” he said, sounding perfectly calm as he stared back at Mycroft, refusing to break eye contact. Sherlock suddenly felt a strong feeling of closeness to this man. He frowned inwardly at himself. These _feelings_ were rather sudden, and becoming rather frequent. He’d watched John pull open a drawer in his room the other day in which Sherlock had kept a bag of fingers (for experiments, he was running out of space in his own room, and prior to John’s moving in, that had been Sherlock’s storage room), and to the detective’s great surprise, instead of yelling at him for it, or running away, or looking at Sherlock with fear and resentment, or indeed anything that might be considered a 'normal' reaction to finding fingers in your bedside drawer, John had simply sighed and had said in an irritated tone, ‘’If you’re going to keep things in here, atleast label them so I don’t get a heart attack.” Sherlock had experienced a warm feeling then, even as he’d put them in a different drawer (without a label).

And here was that feeling again, as he stared at John stubbornly refusing to let either Sherlock or Mycroft walk all over him.

Mycroft, after a moment, looked at Sherlock with a look that said ‘find food before I come and annoy you again’ and left.

John looked at Sherlock. ‘’Why haven’t you fed in two weeks?’’ he demanded.

Sherlock was caught off-guard by the sudden question that he simply blinked at John before saying, ‘’What?’’

“He the last time you fed was in two weeks. That was from that old man. Why haven’t you fed since then?”

Sherlock stared at him, quite at a loss for words, a phenomenon that had happened only five times in his six-hundred and seventy-two years. “You’re… angry because I haven’t sucked anyone’s blood?”

John glared at him sternly. “Yes, genius. And you said then, that you hadn’t fed in three weeks. Why are you starving yourself?”

“I, er-“

“Is it because of me?” John asked. Sherlock managed to clear his head enough to understand what John was saying to him.

“No. Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed. “Not everything I do revolves around you, John. I don’t usually feed while I’m on a case, digestion slows me down.”

John rolled his eyes. “I don’t know who told you that, but it’s bullshit, even for a vampire."- Sherlock had to refrain himself from asking how John was suddenly an expert on vampires and their body functions-"And that might account for the three weeks before the Cunningham’s case, but not these two weeks now. I want you to know- you don’t have to hide it from me. I already know what you are. And I know you don’t kill when you feed. So. You should go and hunt.”

"Hunting is tedious, John. I have to find someone suitable, and if they're not alone at the moment I have to get them alone, and then haul them someplace where they can wake up safely without worrying about whatever vague recollections they might have of me."

"Whatever. Go feed. Now." John's tone was stern (here was Captain Watson, then), and clearly the topic was not up for negotiation.

Sherlock suddenly found that he _was_ rather hungry. And it would shut Mycroft up for a while, at least. It was dark outside, but not dark enough that the moon shone brightly. The perfect time to hunt. Later that night, as he sat in his lab studying a type of mould, feeling satisfied from the blood of a young and healthy groom, he found himself pondering the mystery and wonder that was John Watson. He was beginning to feel glad that he hadn’t let the man leave, or got rid of him another way. Which was just as curious. He’d have to study this further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I have any Indian readers? If so, Happy Diwali! *pointedly ignores the loud bangs of firecrackers outside*  
> Please do review! And follow me on Tumblr, my url is pandabirdsrock. :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG But I've been really, really busy. On that note, I can not guarantee when I will update, updates will be at random and whenever I find time. Also, it was pointed out to me by a reader that in my previous chapters, I failed to explain certain things properly. I'm sorry about this, I have it all planned out in my head and it seems so obvious to me that I forget that my readers can't read my mind. I've tried to be better about it, but if you don't understand some things, please don't hesitate to ask (of course, some things are intentional, to be explained along with the 'grand scheme of things' later on). Please review! :)

Sherlock was bored. _Infuriatingly_ bored. It had been three weeks since the last case, and he was still facing a dead end on the one with the dead woman. And now he was going out of his mind. Life was so _dull_ and six hundred years made it all the more so. It was times like these, when all the interest had gone out of life, that Sherlock really felt cursed. When things seemed desolate and bleak, so dull and grey and _pointless_.

He’d done various experiments to help relieve himself of his boredom in the past. When he was still human, he used to step out into a busy area and deduce everyone’s life stories. That was when he was still honing his observational skills. Being the son of a bishop had helped, he simply passed it off as ‘messages from Above’ or some other such nonsense. People had been convinced he was as enlightened as his father, if not more.

But of course, after his turning, he couldn’t do that. He’d not been allowed to go out at all, forced to resort instead to sneaking out in the dead of the night past the useless guards if he wanted a bit of fresh air.

He shuddered. It’s been over six hundred years, but he still can’t think of the first few years when he was first turned without shivers down his spine. He remembers every second since then as though they were but ten minutes ago, both a gift and a curse. As is almost everything about being a vampire.

Finally, he’d discovered a drug. It had been a fairly recent discovery, but it was more effective on his not-quite-human body than anything else had been. He’d made up his own seven-percent solution with it, which helped him take his mind off the dullness of the world for the blissful few hours it was effective.

He’d just opened the small wooden case which contained his seven-percent solution and a few (sterilised, of course) needles when the door opened.

‘’Sherlock?’’

“John.” Sherlock glanced at him before turning his attention to the apparatus in front of him. Behind him, the door closed and he heard John’s footsteps as he stepped fully into the room.

“What’s that?” John’s voice was inquisitive, yet also slightly wary. Sherlock looked back at him.

“Cocaine. A seven-percent solution of cocaine, to be exact. Helps me clear my mind,” he had hardly reached the end of the sentence when John strode forward and snatched the vial and needle out of his hands. Sherlock stared at him.

“John what are you-“

“I don’t care if you’re a bloody vampire and it doesn’t affect you. This blasted thing should be illegal. You’re not using it, or at least not when I’m around.” John’s tone was final. He also clearly had no intention of giving Sherlock the needle and the vial back. Sherlock’s mouth quirked in amusement. Ever the doctor. (And also the fact that John had a bad history of addiction in his family, mainly alcohol, but a few others as well, including his own gambling problem, which was probably a trigger). Still, this could be fun.

“I’m _bored_ ,” Sherlock whined. John rolled his eyes.

“How is that my problem?’’

Sherlock smirked. “You’ve taken away what I usually use to relieve myself of my boredom, John. Now you must provide a substitute.”

John thought that his eyes were at some point going to start getting problems from his rolling them too much, and his throat would probably get hoarse from sighing in exasperation too often.

“Nothing on the poisoned women case then?” he asked. Last he knew, that case had been left on a dead end, and Sherlock would scowl heavily for half an hour whenever it was mentioned, annoyed that he hadn’t solved it yet.

“No. I told you. Nothing suggestive other than R-A-C-H-E, the poisoning, and the blood loss,” snapped Sherlock (there was that scowl again).

“Wait- blood loss?” Sherlock looked at him as though he was being infuriatingly slow on purpose, a look John was quickly getting used to.

“I told you that too. The victim had obviously lost some amount of blood before she died, although that wasn’t what killed her.”

John stared at him. “Um.. no, you didn’t. And I might have noticed if there had been signs of blood loss!”

“No, you wouldn’t have. There was a cut on her wrist, on her vein, that was hidden by her glove. I noticed a slight smudge of blood on her glove, however, and went back to look at it after you had gone. The cut was deep, it was obviously done with a sharp knife and there would have been quite a bit of bleeding. I told you this when I broke into your rooms that day!”

“Sherlock, I was asleep when you broke into my room. When I woke up, you didn’t mention the blood. Not even when you were explaining why it was obviously a murder and not a suicide.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance and turned away. “Not my fault you weren’t listening.” Sherlock felt he had every right to be annoyed. The case was infuriating, and there was absolutely _nothing_ new with it, not barely enough data to even formulate a possible theory, and Sherlock was half out of his mind with boredom and the horrible nagging feeling that came when he couldn’t solve a case (something that, sadly, happened; although _very_ rarely).

‘’Wait, a slit on the wrist implies intended injury, not just something she could have got from a fall or something accidental,” John’s voice sounded curious.

“I _know_ , John. But that knowledge does not, at the moment, get me any farther. So unless you have any _useful_ inputs, stop bothering me!” He threw himself down in his armchair, his knees drawn up to his chest, indicating that the conversation was over.

John, after fighting a great internal battle against the urge to roll his eyes yet again, turned from the room, leaving the world’s oldest 5-year old to his sulk.

Sherlock, after fifteen minutes of staring into space, cursing the dullness and stupidity of the world, suddenly fled to the library.

*****

‘’JOHN!”

John jumped a little in his chair in his room at the shout. Two seconds later, Sherlock burst in, wild-eyed and a little out of breath.

“Sherlock, wha-“

“Where were they found?” asked Sherlock abruptly, stopping before John, his eyes glinting.

“Who?”

“The women who were killed, of course! Don’t you remember? They were all found in unusual places. Places they had no reason to be.”

“Two had been found in their houses, Sherlock.”

“Places they had no reason to be _found dead_! I talked to their maids and neighbours, they were supposed to have been out during the approximated time of death. They’d been seen leaving. Why would they be killed in their houses if they had been elsewhere?”

“Maybe they came back?”

Sherlock waved him off. “That’s one theory, yes, but more likely is that they were killed elsewhere and were _brought back to avoid suspicion_.” Sherlock turned to him and grinned. John, however, was still quite lost. (We don’t all have the mind of a 672-year-old consulting detective).

“But what about the one in the barn? Or the one we found?”

“The woman found in the barn apparently used to frequent it, she liked being near the horses. The woman we saw was travelling, she wasn’t expected home for another two weeks. Oh he’s been clever!” Sherlock rubbed his hands together in glee. “The body being moved means that we have no clue as to where they were really killed, and therefore we cannot discover their killer that way. The moving of the bodies would have been work, evidently the killer knew enough about them to be able to leave their bodies in places they used to frequent- probably his idea of a joke, as well as a good cover. It also means that he’s not alone, probably has more than one accomplice.”

Sherlock was pacing up and down his room now, murmuring to himself more than to John, the excited glint never leaving his eyes. John found the sight of him quite endearing, and also, possibly, a little cute.

“So do you have any theories then?” John asked.

Sherlock whirled around and beamed at him (definitely cute, John thought. But it wasn’t a thought he was very eager to acknowledge).

“Yes. Four. Two of which seem more probable than the others.” John looked at him, not sure whether or not Sherlock was going to share at the moment.

“Of course, one of the two might seem ludicrous to the police, but it is quite probable, if a little odd…” Sherlock was muttering to himself again, running his hands through his hair. Suddenly, he stopped and looked at John, or in John’s general direction, as his eyes were a bit unfocused. “They were evidently kidnapped,” he said.

“I got that, not a complete idiot, thanks. Are you saying he didn’t have a direct hand in the kidnapping itself?” asked John. Sherlock’s answering beam of approval made him feel quite warm and happy.

“Brilliant, John! Yes, precisely. He might have organised the kidnapping, but probably didn’t actually do it himself.”

“Why not?” asked John, although the answer was pretty obvious.

“Why go to all that trouble, when you can just sit comfortably in one spot and have your henchmen do it for you?” replied Sherlock. “Mycroft might as well have been the killer.”

John laughed. “You’re sure he’s not though?”

Sherlock grinned mischievously back at him. “The murderer evidently needed these women for some purpose, after which he probably killed them himself. Mycroft’s far too lazy to even plan the whole thing out.”

“I am charmed that I will always have an alibi when it comes to your little cases, brother dear,” interrupted a dry voice from the door. They both turned to see Mycroft, giving them that mildly disapproving glare he always did whenever he saw them. (John was always reminded of his headmaster from school, who never liked him much and was always sure he was upto something, and for some reason rather disappointed when he in fact wasn’t.)

“Go away Mycroft,” growled Sherlock, and John was suddenly much more irritated at Mycroft’s presence when he realized that it had replaced Sherlock’s excited grin with the sour expression one usually uses on mould or decaying objects, and which Sherlock always reserved for his brother.

“As sorry as I am to interrupt your… conversation,”- Mycroft seemed to have settled on the word purely for lack of a better one- “you have a visitor,” said Mycroft, raising an eyebrow at him. “ I must say I am quite surprised at your popularity, Sherlock, first Doctor Watson and now the local police inspector, who was lingering outside the gate until I decided to let him in. He didn't see me, of course. If you’re going to throw a party anytime soon, do make sure it is when I’m out of town, won’t you?” While Sherlock scowled at the barely-hid sarcasm dripping from his brother’s voice, the elder Holmes glanced at John by way of goodbye, and left the room.

. “Well,” said John. “Might as well go and see what this is about, then.”

*****

‘’LESTRADE!”

Lestrade was waiting in the Great Hall, looking around in awe, and started when he heard Sherlock’s voice. “Bloody hell, how long have you been here?” he asked, not noticing John at the moment.

“ _How did you know to come here_?” demanded Sherlock, stopping just in front of Lestrade, and almost entirely filling up the man’s field of vision.

“I noticed you set off in the direction of the castle, and thought you might be here. I’m not a complete idiot, no matter what you might think,” said Lestrade, slightly fazed at 6-foot-tall detective in his face. “I’m sorry if this is a private place, or something mate, but-“

“Did anyone come with you?”

“No. Liste-“

“You are not to tell _anyone_ of where I am staying, that the castle isn’t as abandoned and ruined as they believe, or indeed _anything_ about me or this castle at all. You are also never to come here again unless by my invitation. _Understood_?” Sherlock’s voice was firm and steely, and he did not move from his position. Lestrade sighed, but Sherlock’s stormy expression prevented him from arguing.

“Understood. I’m sorry I upset you. Now will you please get out of my face?”

“Where is the body?” asked Sherlock, taking a few steps back.

“That’s what I needed to find and talk to you about, there’s been another one. Not too far from here. And she was obviously killed not too long ago, she’s still bleeding a bit,” explained Lestrade.

“Wait, another woman’s been found dead?” asked John. Lestrade started at hearing his voice.

“You’re here too? Wh-“

“-Never mind all that, you’re wasting time, take us there now, Lestrade,” interrupted Sherlock. But John noticed his eyes were gleaming just a bit at the chance to collect further data for his theories.

The body was in the woods near the house, not very deep in. A young woman, late twenties according to Lestrade, and what was odd was that she had been reported missing, unlike the others. “Her parents came to Anderson yesterday evening, saying their daughter had gone riding and hadn’t come back,” explained Lestrade.

Sherlock scoffed. “Over-protective parents who think if their daughter isn’t within their field of vision for over 10 minutes, something’s gone drastically wrong. This is probably one of the lone cases where there is actual cause for worry.”

“It isn’t insane paranoia, Sherlock. And she’d been missing for two days,” said Lestrade. “Blow to the back of the head, but we’re not sure if that’s what killed her. There’s also a rather deep cut on her wrist. We’re almost there, now.” They stopped near a gathering of the police force, and John could see Anderson and a few other faces. He spotted Donovan talking to a man and a woman who were in tears, evidently the parents of the girl. John felt a stab of pity for them. Sherlock brushed past him, walking toward the body on the ground, his eyes sweeping over the area. John slowly walked after him.

“Sherlock,” said John quietly, crouching beside Sherlock next to the body and tugging on the man’s (he wasn’t yet used to thinking ‘vampire’s’) sleeve to get his attention. “She was reported missing, and then found in a desolate place? You said the others were put there to draw attention away from the scene of the crime, why is this different?”

“Look at the ground, John. What do you see? Other than the footprints of these imbeciles, who’ve trampled all over the place like a herd of gazelle, of course,” said Sherlock, ignoring John's question and keeping his voice low so that only John could hear him, still looking around for clues.

“Um.. are those.. hoofprints? She was out riding, wasn’t she?” said John, frowning at the ground. Sherlock was right, the police had trampled all over the place, making it hard to get much from the soil.

“Yes. But she certainly wouldn’t have been riding with more than one horse, would she? Her parents said she always went out alone.” asked Sherlock, glancing sideways at John.

“There were more than one horse? How can you tell in this mess?” Sherlock smiled softly. “The shoe. I noticed the distinct pattern of two different types of horseshoes, indicating two different horses, possibly from two different stables.”

“So she wasn’t alone then.”

“Most certainly not. The killer brought her here, as he did the others, to make it seem like she had a riding accident or something. But you see the cut on her wrist, just like the one I found on the first body we saw. This was orchestrated just as much as the others,” Sherlock turned around, and strode up to Lestrade.

“Found anything, then?” asked Lestrade, looking slightly weary (he’d just been confronted by the parents, who had just left, angry that no one would explain who/what killed their daughter or why they weren’t allowed to take the body yet).

“The blow to the back of her head isn’t what killed her,” announced John. “I’d say poison, going by the faint colouring of the skin of her face. You should get a post-mortem done. But that cut would have definitely bled a lot.”

“Bloody hell,” murmured the police inspector, running a hand through his hair. “Any idea who might have killed her, then?”

Sherlock grinned, suddenly. It was creepy and made him look like a mad scientist who’d just discovered a formula to help take over the world. “Serial killer’s always hard,’’ he said. “You have to wait for them to make a mistake. But luckily, in this case, we don’t have to wait any longer.” His grin widened.

“Look, if there’s anything you know but you’re not telling me,” started Lestrade-

“Nothing solid enough for you to go on. She was killed elsewhere and brought here. By horse, to make it look like she’d had a riding accident. The others were also killed somewhere else, and then brought to places where it wouldn’t be too suspicious for them to be found.”

“Okay, so-“

“So sorry Graham, but I have a theory to test! Come along, John!” Sherlock spun away abruptly and left, his coat billowing out behind him. Lestrade sighed, looking exasperatedly after him.

“My name’s Gregory,” he said disdainfully. John clapped him sympathetically on the shoulder and ran after Sherlock.

*****

“The killer obviously wasn’t expecting her body to be found so soon,” explained Sherlock. They were back in his room at the castle now. Excitement was thrumming through his veins, the mind-numbing dullness he had felt that morning now forgotten. “He didn’t realize that her parents would raise the alarm. A vital mistake, one that might cost him the entire thing. That, and the fact that the police have been finding the bodies, and being able to ascertain the time of death for all of them.” He rubbed his hands together.

“She’s the fifth to be found, isn’t she?” asked John. He was sitting in Sherlock’s chair, calmly looking up at him while he paced around. Sherlock felt a pang of something he couldn’t quite recognize- something that involved him liking the way John looked, sitting there in Sherlock’s room, looking up at Sherlock and asking questions about their latest case. It was a very nice feeling, actually, and Sherlock was a bit sad to push it away so he could focus on the matter at hand.

“Yes. I have a theory, John. According to this theory, unless the killer has killed more women whose bodies have not been found, there will either be no more killings for a while, after which there will be another five, or there will be two more.”

“What? Why?”

Sherlock smiled at the genuine curiosity in his voice, and turned to look at him. He paused for a moment (one _could_ say it was for dramatic effect, and one would not be _entirely_ wrong), and said, in all seriousness, “Have you heard of Black Magic, John?”

John gaped at him. Sherlock laughed internally. John looked quite adorable (a word Sherlock Holmes does _not_ use, in any situation whatsoever) when he was surprised and confused and lost his voice for a moment. He’d looked like this the first time he’d confronted Sherlock about being a vampire too. Sherlock spent the time John took to comprehend what he’d said to smile fondly at the memory.

“But- isn’t that- you can’t be serious!” spluttered John.

 _Welcome back_ , Sherlock thought to himself. “John. I’m a vampire. I was born out of Black Magic. Of course I’m serious. And I also found traces of blood in her hair and clothes, still quite fresh, although some effort had been made to clean them, that would be consistent to the pattern of a pentagram, if you are very familiar with those types of things, of course. An ordinary person might not have come to the conclusion I have. I found similar patterns on Jennifer Wilson’s body.”

John took another moment to stare at him, then said, “So that’s your theory? And that would account for the aconite poisoning and the slit on their wrists, I suppose,” he murmured. Then he looked up at Sherlock, evidently having found another flaw in the theory.“I thought you needed the blood of virgins? Jennifer Wilson was married!”

Sherlock sighed at the stupidity of humans. “It doesn’t mean ‘women who have never had intercourse’, John. It means virgin _blood_ , as in ‘women whose blood have never been used for Black Magic before’. Honestly, no wonder your many books on these subjects have been deemed ‘fiction’” said Sherlock.

“Oh. And you say either five or seven, because-“

“They’re the most powerful numbers, according to the field,” finished Sherlock, pleased that John seemed to be catching on. “Although 13 is also equally potent, now that I think of it. It is unlikely that it is a real Dark Wizard, those are as rare as vampires, and I or Mycroft would know if one was in the area,” he continued.The so-called 'Dark Wizards' tended to try and rope in vampires for their rituals, which usually involved them trying to drink all of the vampire’s blood and therefore gain eternal youth. Utterly preposterous, but it happened. And no one had tried to kidnap him yet (or Mycroft, but then he hardly knew or cared what Mycroft got up to on a daily basis, and he hardly left his chambers anyway), but he still couldn’t rule it out completely.

“So what you’re saying,” John’s steady voice interrupted his thoughts. He looked over at him. John was leaning forward in his armchair, looking at Sherlock thoughtfully. “Is that we’re dealing with what I initially assumed you and Mycroft to be- a dangerous madman with a knowledge of the Dark Arts.”

Sherlock smiled at that. John sounded like he was discussing the weather. That warm feeling he had experienced before came over him again, in greater force this time. “Yes,” he replied, sounding equally calm. John smiled back at him.

“Well I guess the game is on, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! Dear readers, we are slowly edging toward the main, rather a bit dark plot of this story. I got the thing about virgin blood from a Tumblr post actually, and it seemed cool so I used it here. I'm not sure if it's accurate, though, having very little experience with dark rituals and such (I'm only on season 1 of supernatural, although thanks to Tumblr I know most of what happens in the later seasons).


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year to all my lovely readers! And thank you all for the kudos and comments, they really make my day. :D

Sherlock beamed at him, and John suddenly felt an astonishingly warm feeling grow in his chest. It was an odd sensation he’d never really experienced before. If he’d given it some thought at the time, he’d have known immediately what is was, and may or may not have found it disturbing to feel that way about a 672 year old male vampire.

However, John did not think about it at the time, and so his midlife crisis was avoided (for the time being, at least). The reason he did not immediately wonder what he was feeling or how he was feeling or why he was feeling that way, was because Sherlock had decided to prance around the room and say, with that mad glint in his eye (the fact that John found this endearing would also have been cause for him to panic) and announced, “Yes! The game is on, indeed! ‘’All the men and women merely players’’, as Shakespeare said. Of course, he meant ‘players’ as in ‘actors’, as is consistent with the lingo of his time, but that is no matter. Come on, John! We have research to do!”

He then ran out of the room, not bothering to check if John was following him (as if he ever wouldn’t). John, feeling rather excited himself (and trying not to get over-happy at the ‘we’, because he suddenly felt insanely delighted and being so _included_ ), got up and followed him out the door. Sherlock led him straight to the library, hardly looking at John and muttering under his breath to himself all the while.

They spent the rest of the evening there, Sherlock pulling out random books, occasionally thrusting one or two at John, who flicked through them, not entirely sure of what he was supposed to be looking for. That hardly seemed to matter, however, as Sherlock seemed occupied in his own world, as he leafed through the old (yet very well-preserved) pages of various books, a few that seemed as old as Sherlock himself (the old Bishop’s, maybe? They were all in excellent condition, however, so it was hard to tell. It was only by the language, style of writing, and the occasional dates mentioned that John could ascertain that they were not, in fact, ten years old at the most).

Finally, after hours, John looked at his pocket watch. It was well past midnight, which would certainly account for his exhaustion. He ought to be getting to bed, but he didn’t think he had the energy to get up and drag himself back to bed. There was a fire roaring in the fireplace, the armchair he was currently occupying was cosy and warm… He looked around. Sherlock was sitting at a desk, almost hidden from view by stacks of books. There was a nice, homely feeling to it all that made John seem so content and happy. He decided that it really wouldn’t matter if he fell asleep there in front of the fire, with Sherlock muttering to himself in a corner. He felt himself yawn, and his eyes drooped.

He woke up the next morning feeling relaxed and refreshed, the satisfied, happy feeling from last night still lingering. That was a bit odd, he realized. There wasn’t particularly anything going on to feel so happy about. In fact, it was quite the opposite if Sherlock was right and there was a madman who fancied himself a dark sorcerer around somewhere. But as he looked around, surprisingly comfortable in the armchair (apart from a slight crick in his neck, it was as if he hadn’t spent the night in the position he’d woken up in), he realized that he felt more at home here than he had felt anywhere before Afghanistan. In this mad old castle he shared with two mad old vampires.

The books Sherlock had been going through the night before had mostly been put away, but a select few remained on the desk, one or two having long, silk bookmarks peeking out the top. The man himself was nowhere in sight. John yawned again, blinking himself fully awake, and then got up to go and wash up before he went to raid the Holmes’ kitchen.

As he entered the kitchen, he found Mycroft sitting at the table with a (rather large, and already half-eaten) chocolate cake in front of him.

“Good Morning,” he mumbled, before turning to the cupboards. He didn’t feel like he could deal with Mycroft so early in the morning.

“Good Morning, John,” returned Mycroft pleasantly from behind him. “My brother’s out chasing data to test his theories for the case, he won’t be back until noon I’m afraid.”

“Alright,” said John, moving on to the gas stove with a pan and some eggs.

“No further inquiries?” asked Mycroft. His tone made John turn around and narrow his eyes at him suspiciously.

“No. Why, should I have?” he asked, wondering where Mycroft was going with this. The elder Holmes looked at him with that gaze that seemed to bore into your very soul, searching for and rifling through your darkest and deepest secrets. It seemed so similar to his brother’s, and yet so different. John leaned against the counter and stared back. (It was definitely too early in the morning for this.)

“My brother,” said Mycroft after a pause, “Is, as you know, over six hundred years old. In that time, he has been, by his own design mostly, alone. He has never particularly sought company, especially not after he was turned, and even when he did it was not for the pleasure of companionship but because he needed them for various purposes. Once that purpose was served, he inevitably tired of them, and they could never put up with him for long. He might have met people on his travels, perhaps, whom he considered friends, but I find it unlikely.”

John frowned at him, “And you’re telling me your brother is an antisocial introvert because….?”

“You’ve been here a few months, John, and the longer you stay the more comfortable you seem to be, the less you seem to think about leaving. Unless you’ve managed to hide your true intentions from both my brother and me, which, if I may say at the risk of sounding too arrogant, I highly doubt.”

John raised an eyebrow at him, crossing his arms. “If you could come to the point, Mycroft, the eggs are almost done.”

“You seem to be the exception to a theory concerning my brother that has been proved repeatedly over hundreds of years, John. Both of you enjoy each other’s company, you value your time with each other, and neither have shown signs of never wanting to be in the presence of the other again. I hope you realize, John Watson, that in these few months you’ve been in Sherlock’s acquaintance, you’ve become his first friend in nearly seven hundred years,” Mycroft sounded grave and serious.

John quickly turned and scooped the eggs onto a plate before he replied, “I find that hard to believe, Mycroft. You underestimate Sherlock. You say others find him insufferable, you believe him to be too. He’s not all that bad.”

Mycroft smiled. But it was an odd sort of smile, one that John couldn’t really describe. “You’d be one of the few men to say that, John. Perhaps the only one.”

John shrugged, deciding to hold the plate in his hand instead of sitting down at the table opposite Mycroft, and realized that even though Mycroft had reacted as though John had declared his unyielding love for the man rather than ‘he’s not that bad’, in Sherlock’s case, it was perhaps warranted. Which was quite sad, once he came to think about it. His questions concerning Sherlock’s past and his turning were on the tip of his tongue, when Mycroft (his cake finished) rose.

“Good day, Dr. Watson.”

John finished his eggs and stared after him, not quite knowing what to think or make of that conversation.

*****

It was late in the evening when Sherlock returned. He’d spent a rather fruitless day snooping around the nothing other than the local gossip on who fancied whom, who’s daughter had recently eloped with a stable boy and run away to the city, and an old man who’d apparently dropped dead chasing kids away from his cherry trees. (This last would have been interesting had the man not been over ninety years old had a heart condition that was triggered by his yelling and running after the rather frightened ten-year olds.)

The most interesting thing to happen all day, in fact, was a leaf that flew the opposite direction to the blowing of the wind. Unfortunately, while Sherlock was following the leaf he bumped into someone, and in the two seconds it took to shake off the angry woman (mid-twenties, lived with her stiff and strict father, was having a tryst with a young man she’d probably been on her way to meet), he’d lost sight of it.

He was glad to be home, finally. He was now almost fully convinced it was indeed someone obsessed with the Dark Arts and witchcraft, the pattern fit. He’d hardly considered the field since his turning. He’d been obsessed with it, for those first ten years, desperately trying to turn himself back, and to research about himself, truly find out what he’d become, what he could do. He’d performed a few rituals himself, dabbled in blood and skulls and all of that. He’d done many things, in those first fifty years, he wasn’t proud of them. John thought he was harmless, it was true that he’d never directly murdered anyone. But he’d left the people who’d crossed him back then more dead than alive anyway.

He blinked, bringing himself out of his moody reverie. That was hundreds of years ago, he wouldn’t dream of doing those things now, and there was no point dwelling on it. He had to focus on the case at hand, solve it before another innocent girl was killed. (Although, frankly, he was far more interested in the perpetrator of these crimes, he was certainly and interesting and clever man.)

“Sherlock?” John’s voice rang through the door to his room, which opened after a moment.

“Sherlock? Hey, how was your day? Did you find anything?” John came in and sat down on his bed. Sherlock shook his head. “It is almost certainly someone who’s interested in the Dark Arts. I highly doubt it is an actual sorcerer, those pretty much became extinct during the Middle Ages. They never really caught an actual one back then, but they made up for their stupidity in identifying evil by inventing rather creative torture devices that scared most away from the profession,” replied Sherlock.

“Ahh yes, you hear about those in most historical novels or horror stories. There are a few on display in the Tower of London. Gives me the creeps, thinking about the poor sods who were subjected to that sort of thing,” said John, shuddering slightly.

Sherlock grinned. “I think there are still a few down in the dungeons, shall I take you to see them?” he asked teasingly, laughing as he watched the colour drain from John’s face. “Relax, John, I’m just joking. The dungeons have been sealed ever since my father died. No one’s been in them since.”

John blew out a relieved huff. “Right. Well then, I’m off to bed. Unless, you’ve, you know, is there anything you need me to-“

“I’m fine, John. Goodnight.”

“Right, well, yeah. Goodnight.” He left, closing the door behind him, leaving Sherlock seated in his chair, brooding over what he knew of the case so far. He decided, first, to focus on whoever was doing the kidnapping. They would lead them to the mastermind behind it all. The kidnapper was evidently someone smart. This person might not be in charge of the entire operation, but he or she (most likely he, balance of probability, and the nature of the crimes and victims) was still clever enough to kidnap those women in broad daylight and not be caught. Hours later, the clock on the wall chimed, telling him it was two in the morning. He sighed and got up from his chair, deciding he may as well try to get some sleep.

Sherlock woke with a jolt, finding himself covered in sweat and gasping for breath on his bed. Something was wrong. He sat up, and immediately felt a wet, sticky mass between his legs. Well, that explained the smell and the weird sensation in the pit of his stomach.

He quickly stripped off his soiled covers and changed his trousers, before laying back down in bed. This was, just _wrong._ For God’s sake, he was a grown man. More than that, he’d had over six hundred years to discipline his mind and body, to detach himself from such _mundane_ pleasures. And now he’d had a wet dream like a lovesick teenager. Something he felt even worse about, seeing as he’d never been a lovesick teenager. He’d always been in total control. He didn’t know what (or, rather, who) the dream had been about, but he had a good idea, and that made matters even worse, because it meant he was having wet dreams about a man he’d kidnapped and held in his castle for three months who was about the closest thing to a friend he’d ever had, and, if he knew about what Sherlock’s subconscious thought of him, would finally do what any sane person would have done in the very beginning and run a million miles away.

Cursing himself, and deciding there was no point in moping about in bed any longer, he got up and washed before going downstairs, deciding he needed some fresh air to clear his mind and hoping he didn’t run into John on the way.

Of course, it was just his luck that John was waiting for him when he opened the door. “Hey, you’ve been a while. It’s nearly nine.”

Sherlock cursed in his head. “John! Good morning! I’m popping down to Lestrade’s, care to join me?” _Stupid, you’re being far too jovial, he’ll see through that immediately._

John looked at him, but if he thought something was off, he didn’t say anything. “Yeah, of course. Let me just get my coat.”

After John had retrieved his coat, during which time Sherlock managed to pull himself together, they set off. When they reached Lestrade’s office, they were forced to wait awhile as he’d gone to the city and was due back that morning but was yet to arrive. He finally came, about an hour later, looking tired and rather haggard. “Suicide in some posh judge’s house,” he said to them in lieu of greeting. “And on top of that, the cabbie charged me too bloody much.”

John nodded sympathetically. “It’s a bloody crime, mate. And we trust these people with our addresses.”

Sherlock gasped. _Of course._ It all made sense. Perfect sense. “John, you’re brilliant!” he yelled, clapping his hands together (this was also because he did not trust himself to not pull John into a squeezing hug at the moment, which might(?) seem alright normally, but Sherlock felt that if he could have a wet dream about the man, there was no guaranteeing how he might react to a hug) and jumping in excitement.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You might not be the brightest of men, but as a conductor of light you are _unbeatable!_ ”

“Ta very much, thanks. What have done or said that’s so bloody illuminating, then?” John was looking at him with an amused twinkle in his eye, sounding as though he didn’t know whether to be flattered of offended. Silly John. _Silly, adorable, brilliant John._ He should be flattered, of course.

“ _We trust these people with our addresses._ Don’t you see? It would be so easy, so ridiculously simple. No one notices cabbies anyway, or anything about them. Not their face, their horse, their accent. Some do, at the time, but forget it almost immediately.”

“So you’re saying a cab driver-“ started Lestrade.

“-Kidnapped those women. Yes! He’d know the houses where those young women lived, he’d be able to come and go without being thought suspicious. It’s brilliant, really.” Sherlock grinned.

John cleared his throat. Sherlock looked at him. John shook his head minutely. Sherlock looked back at Lestrade. “I mean, of course, that the-“

“We still have to search for the cabbie. Out of hundreds,” interrupted Lestrade (after shooting John an amused smile). Sherlock grinned again. “I might be able to help with that. I was snooping around yesterday. The topics of gossip in local pubs range from murder to, fortunately for us, a cabbie who keeps turning up at the wrong house. After this happened a few times, someone noted down the cab’s registration number, which I dismissed at the moment but thankfully still remember.”

John and Lestrade grinned. Sherlock seized a slip of paper and a pen and wrote down the registration number on it, thrusting it back at Lestrade. “The driver’s not the murderer. But he’ll hopefully lead you to whoever it is. I’ll come back tomorrow, hopefully you’ll have him by then.” He rose, feeling rather smug. Yesterday wasn’t a complete waste of time after all, and nor, as it turned out, was today.

*****

John walked behind Sherlock on the way back to the castle, who was radiating post-case smugness.

“This is far from over, John. I did not tell Lestrade as much, but once this cabbie is out of the way all our killer has to do is look for another one,” said Sherlock. (Yet he was still radiating post-case smugness.)

“I know. But hopefully he’ll lead us to the killer,” replied John. They were at the gates now, which Sherlock pushed open effortlessly, as though they weren’t bolted from the inside (it was an ancient enchantment, Sherlock had explained, one that he’d put up shortly after his father’s death. It allowed him and Mycroft to come and go as they pleased, but anyone else would be sealed out unless one of the brothers allowed them entry.)

Sherlock paused. “I doubt it,” he said, looking at John. “Our killer-whoever he is- seems to have trained his crew well.” He walked briskly toward the castle. John stared at him, then followed. Once inside, the doors shut behind him (also part of the enchantment). He looked around, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

The man had been acting odd since early that morning. John wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. He thought back to what Mycroft had said to him. Was it possible that Sherlock was getting bored of him? He really hoped not.

The next day, Sherlock and John went down to the police station again. Sherlock had seemed normal enough, later. He’d even played his violin at John’s request.

Lestrade had found the cabbie, and he was waiting for them in the interrogation room. He was a small, weak-looking man, clearly well into his fifties, with wire-rimmed spectacles and a woollen cap and an old sweater that was starting to look a bit worn.

Sherlock deduced in seconds that he lived alone, his wife had died a while ago, and had two children, both teenage. He also deduced that he was dying, had some sort of terminal illness.

The cabbie, it turned out, was rather clever. He’d grinned at Sherlock’s deductions and called him a ‘proper genius’. The only time he’d lost his carefree attitude was when Sherlock mentioned his children. His face had flickered, then, with what seemed like regret mixed with resignation. He’d explained that he had some sort of brain fever which baffled the doctors, and that any moment could be his last. The killer had very kindly agreed to be his ‘sponsor’, sending money to his children for every woman he kidnapped.

He refused to co-operate, however, when it came to the name of his so-called sponsor. Sherlock had left in an irritated huff, demanding to know how the universe could be so infuriating. (Lestrade had also refused to torture the man for information, a decision that John had supported wholeheartedly as the two glared at him disapprovingly).

*****

“Brother dear, though I am delighted to see you are making friends-“ (he stressed on the plural)-“I am afraid that if this sort of trespassing is going to become a habit, I will be forced to take matters into my own hands.”

Mycroft was standing near the door to John’s room, looking disapprovingly at Sherlock, who was smoking a pipe. Sherlock rolled his eyes and got up.

“Relax, Mycroft. Lestrade is harmless. Come on, John, we might as well go see what’s so important.”

They walked past a glaring Mycroft and made their way down the stairs, Sherlock staring back at his brother interestedly.

“Mycroft fancies him,” he announced as they were halfway down the staircase.

John stumbled and nearly fell down the rest of the flight. “What?!”

Sherlock grinned. “He could have just kept him outside, you know. He let him in because he fancies him.”

John stared. “I- Should I feel sorry for Lestrade?” Sherlock laughed. They reached the bottom of the staircase safely without further heart-stopping revelations, to find Lestrade once again standing in the middle of the Entrance Hall, his posture tense.

“Lestrade, what is it?”

Lestrade looked at them, looking rather grim. “The cabbie’s dead.”

Sherlock froze. “Wait, is it because of his illness?” asked John.

Lestrade shook his head. “No, mate. His cell was broken into last night. Killer left a message for you, Sherlock.”

“What did it say?”

Lestrade stared at him. “It said, ‘Come and play, Sherlock; M.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I should say, the cabbie here doesn't have an aneurism because I'm not sure if medicine and technology from this era (this fic is set in 1900) was advanced enough to identify one. (I'm pretty sure not). Also, as you no doubt noticed, there isn't much of period-typical homophobia. As in, there is some, of course there will be, but it really rather ruins my oppurtunity to write Greg and Mycroft scheming on how to get those two together, heehee. Hope you liked it! Please review! And you can also follow me on tumblr, at pandabirdsrock.tumblr.com


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm so sorry this took so long, but I've really been EXTREMELY busy. Hope you like this chapter! Please review!

Sherlock stared. Then his face split into a wide grin. “Oh this is _brilliant,_ ” he said, then practically ran out the door.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, and he and John followed Sherlock.

John caught up to the excited detective and said, “Do you know this ‘M’ then?”

Sherlock was walking so fast John had to jog to keep up with him, his ‘crime scene face’ (as John had decided to call it) growing more pronounced with every step. “No. But, surprisingly, I’m finding not knowing not all that frustrating at the moment.”

John chuckled. “Only you would be delighted at the prospect of a serial killer who can break into police headquarters and leave you an ominous message.”

“Does that bother you?” Sherlock sounded curious, as if that were something he hadn’t considered before, and which might actually affect him.

John considered. “Oddly enough, no.”

“Hmm. And it’s not that hard to break into the local police headquarters, John, I’ve done it countless times myself. Mind you, it’s not like Scotland Yard is all that much better. Posher and flashier, perhaps”

“Like you’re one to talk about posh, Sherlock Holmes. I’ve seen the way you look down your upturned nose at my jumpers.”

“That’s because your jumpers are hideous, John. Anyone would look at them that way.”

“Oh stuff it.”

They soon reached the police office, and Lestrade led them down to the holding cells. John gagged at the strong stench of blood, which reminded him rather unpleasantly of wounded and dying men in Afghanistan. Lestrade looked rather uncomfortable too.

Sherlock, however, seemed unaffected by the smell, instead staring intently at the large splatter of drying blood on the wall, and the words which were written across it in what seemed to be charcoal. He turned to Lestrade.

“Before you ask, it’s the cabbie’s. Got it confirmed just before I came to get you,” said Lestrade before Sherlock could speak. Sherlock nodded and turned back to the wall.

“He was slashed with a knife. The splash pattern and amount of blood suggest a major artery was torn, so his neck, perhaps. The blood’s not completely dry yet, so it’s only been a few hours. You usually come in at seven, and it would have taken you an hour to verify the source of the blood, and let’s assume another hour and a half to bring us here. Was the blood fresh when you came in?” Sherlock didn’t look away from the wall, stepping closer to it frowning slightly as he thought.

“Er, well, fresher than it is now, but it’d already been a while,” responded Lestrade.

“Hmm. Let’s put approximate time of death at slightly past midnight, then. I assume there was no body?”

“No.”

Sherlock stepped back from the wall, looking irritated. “One day,” he said, his frustration evident, “We will possess the means to watch rooms without being in them, and more importantly, to re-watch what happened hours earlier. Of course, that would mean half the detective force in England would be out of a job, but it’s hardly like you’re making much of a difference anyway.”

Lestrade, ignoring the slight on his job and intelligence, said, “Yeah, but people like this ‘M’ would probably get around those too.”

“And people like you and Anderson and Donovan would still fumble around, trying to find out who did it.”

Lestrade sighed again and looked at John, who gave him an apologetic smile.

“’M’ knew we’d be questioning Mr. Jefferson Hope this morning. He didn’t want him to speak. That much is clearly evident. But this, this big show, the message, the blood, that is to get my attention. He knows me. Wants to ‘play’.” Sherlock muttered, peering closely at the wall. He put out a hand and gently touched the message, bringing his hand back to his nose and sniffing it.

“Charcoal. The common kind, found in every house. We can’t trace it to anywhere…” He turned around and started pacing. “He wants my attention. He wants me. ‘Come and play’, he’s teasing, taunting. He means to draw me out.. But to where?”

“If you could tell us how he got in, that’d be great,” Lestrade interrupted Sherlock with a look of impatience. Sherlock flapped a dismissive hand at him.

“Child’s play, Lestrade. He picked the lock on the door, and left the same way, locking it again before he left.”

Lestrade looked surprised. “What- that’s it? Hang on- is that how you get in here?”

Sherlock looked back at him with a slight smirk. Lestrade groaned.

“Don’t worry too much about it, inspector. The criminals you lock up in here don’t have the brains to pickpocket, they can hardly pick these locks.” Lestrade glared at him.

“What do you propose we do now, then?”

Sherlock sighed, sounding frustrated for the first time. “Nothing. ‘M’ has covered his tracks well. There are almost no traces left behind. If it weren’t for that”- he waved at the message and blood spatter on the wall- “it’s almost as it there was never anyone here.”

“Perhaps we could, I don’t know, see if there’s anyone in the countryside who’s name starts with ‘M’?” suggested John.

“That’s far too extensive a list, John. And it might not even be someone from the countryside. We need more evidence.”

“I suppose we could rule out Mycroft,” said John, thinking of a conversation from a few days ago. Sherlock flashed him a cheeky smile and turned back to Lestrade.

“Like I said, whoever this is plans to draw me out. Make me dance to their tunes. It’s all a game, to them. I doubt the killings will stop. Hope might be dead, but someone like this ‘M’ will have other people. I’d estimate about a month before he strikes again. They’ll do something different this time, it won’t be another cabbie. But someone just as inconspicuous. He may or may not know where I live, but he knows of your connection to me, so it’s likely he’ll contact you first.” He turned and walked toward the door.

“Let me know if anything happens, tell me _immediately_ if he contacts you, and for God’s sake don’t try to be clever and figure things out yourself and end up botching up the whole thing.” And then he swept out the door.

John and Lestrade exchanged long-suffering looks before John followed.

*****

“What are you reading?” John’s voice shook Sherlock out of his reverie. He looked down at his hands, confused for a moment, to find he was indeed holding a sheaf of papers. He groaned inwardly when he recognised what it was. Of all the things to have just picked up..

“Your version of that case with the dead coachman,” he said, stressing slightly on the ‘your’. It certainly didn’t tally with his account, after all. He settled more firmly into the sofa he was lying on (16th century, velvet and ivory, Parisian, the only thing he’d brought back with him from the place, where he’d lived for about 50 years. It was comfortable and made Mycroft’s look like a table stool in comparison) and stared at a cobweb on the ceiling.

“I thought you said it was ridiculous?” John sounded slightly offended. Sherlock rolled his eyes, still staring up at the ceiling rather than look at John, whom he knew was probably sporting that ‘why do I put up with you’ look he’d rather seemed to have perfected in these past few months. It was better than Lestrade’s, actually.

“It is ridiculous. You completely ignored and misinterpreted my methods, over-romanticizing the entire thing. It was a clever murder, John. Not some ridiculous drama. And, of course, your narrow field of thinking and inability to comprehend a vast number of things which are evidently too advanced for your tiny intellectual capacity is wonderfully shown in the way you remark, ‘Sherlock can certainly see and understand a vast many things, and is clearly of a vast intellect, and yet is spectacularly ignorant about some things, such as the fact that the earth revolves around the sun.’”

“But it’s the-“

“ _Solar system_ , yes. Bravo, John. Tell me, how has knowledge of that fact affected your life in any way?” Sherlock was quite pissed off at that, actually. People cluttered their heads with all sorts of rubbish, they always had. It was so tiring having to deal with them, and then they expected you to do the same.

He could see John out of his peripheral vision. He looked slightly uncomfortable, probably acknowledging that Sherlock had a point. He always had a point. Yet people had always ignored him, at the least, and struck out in.. unpleasant.. ways, at the most.

“I come from a time when the earth was in the centre of the universe, when it was flat, and when lands overseas where as distant and as much a thing of fantasy as the stars above us. Yet people lived their lives then, and this ‘big revelation’ isn’t half the reason they live it differently now. _It doesn’t matter._ What matters to me, is the Work. We’ve had this discussion before. And right now, you’re interrupting me, and not letting me focus on the madman who has issued what is clearly a direct challenge, not to mention a threat!” Sherlock turned his back to John, facing the soft, dark blue velvet of the sofa, before John could realize that he hadn’t actually done anything much to disturb him (a fact Sherlock barely recognized and stubbornly refused to openly acknowledge.) It wasn’t exactly his fault that Sherlock had picked up the wretched thing, anyway. Behind him, he heard John shuffle around awkwardly, no doubt looking like an irritated child who’d been told off in class, and then he heard the door close. Sherlock rolled onto his back again, blinking up at the cobweb, and retreated into his mind palace.

Sherlock jerked back much later to a sharp pain in his right forefinger. He opened his eyes to find Mycroft pinching it in an effort to rouse him. Sherlock glared. “What do you want?” he snapped. “I’m rather busy at the moment.”

Mycroft sat back. “Forget your childish murderer, Sherlock. I’m afraid the time that your nation needs your help, once again.”

“ Our ancestral roots are greater in Rome, actually.”

“I know.” Mycroft gave him his prim ‘don’t-be-clever-with-me’ smile. “One of Father’s ancestors was a general in the Roman army and came over during the invasion in 209AD. But you yourself didn’t think much of Italy, did you?”

Well, that had less to do with the place and more to do with the fact that, having been less than a hundred and still furious at his turning, and at the same time drunk with the power it had given him, he’d been rather… reckless. He gave a noncommittal hum and folded his hands under his chin.

“But I’m not here to rouse unpleasant memories, brother dear. I need you to go to London.”

Sherlock snorted. Mycroft really hadn’t changed much, not when it came to Sherlock and luxurious food, at least. “And you think I’ll just run off to wherever you send me, do you? What incentive do I have to go all the way to London, when there’s a delightful puzzle for me right here?”

“I was thinking you’d take John with you,” replied Mycroft. Sherlock glanced at him, seeing the glint in his eye that meant he thought he had Sherlock cornered. “His house is in London.”

“So?”

“Well, seeing as it is rather your fault that he hasn’t been home in months..” Mycroft trailed off, looking at him meaningfully.

In his head (but not on the outside, of course) Sherlock winced. It was rather true he’d refused to let John leave, basically holding him captive, although it seemed John had decided he didn’t mind. And he had his medical practice there as well, after all. He must certainly be missing the place...

Sherlock kept all these thoughts to himself, (though he suspected Mycroft knew what he was thinking anyway) and said, “I’m busy, Mycroft. I don’t have time for your dull government scandals.”

Mycroft sighed. “It involves a murder.”

“Queen finally cracked, has she? No, I’m sorry Mycroft. I don’t care if half the Parliament has been found dead, I’m afraid I can’t help you at the moment, brother dear. Goodbye.”

Mycroft gave another long-suffering sigh before getting up and walking out. _If only it was always that easy,_ Sherlock thought, closing his eyes again.

“Sherlock?” A more welcome voice sounded next to him a few moments later. Sherlock smiled slightly before opening his eyes.

“Ah, John. How long has it been?” He had an internal clock in his mind palace of course, but he hadn’t bothered to check it.

“About 3 hours.” Only so long?

“Stupid Mycroft,” he grumbled.

“Yes, I saw Mycroft just now, looked rather displeased. Or, more than usual, I suppose.” John sounded faintly amused. He found the brothers’ rivalry childish, and ‘frankly a bit adorable’. Ridiculous. That was one thing that Mycroft and Sherlock were united on, at least. And then John had almost fallen off his chair and he laughed at their ‘identical how-dare-you-speak-to-me-peasant faces.’ Utterly absurd.

“Hmm. He wanted us to go to-“ Sherlock suddenly stopped himself. What if Mycroft was right, and John wanted to go to London, go back home? What if, once there, he refused to return? Sherlock didn’t know why, but the thought of John leaving him was suddenly painful, leaving a twisting, highly unpleasant feeling in his stomach. “-Solve some government issue,” he said. “As if I’d do whatever he tells me to.”

John raised an eyebrow. “He expects you to solve help with some boring bureaucratic issue when you’ve just been invited to a showdown with a murderer?” He sounded genuinely surprised at Mycroft’s lack of judgement of his brother’s sentiments. Sherlock suddenly felt a bit better.

“He’s yet to understand that I’m not one of his minions. So it’s around seven, then? Have you eaten yet?” Food was very important to John, for some reason. Not like how it was to Cakecroft (he knew the nickname was childish, but he was rather fond of it), he supposed it had to do with John’s doctor instincts. Sherlock had never eaten much, not even when he was human.

“I thought I’d check on you before going down.” Interesting. John spoke as though he.. cared. About the case, or Sherlock? Frankly, with anyone else, the idea of them caring for either was preposterous, but with John he wasn’t sure… A bit of both, perhaps? Sherlock found himself liking the idea.

“You didn’t need to. Go down before Mycroft finishes all the food. He eats extra when he’s upset.”

“Extra? Oh my, I can hardly imagine that,” John grinned and stood. “Tell me if you get anything,” he said as he left. Sherlock got up and started to pace around, then picked up his violin and sat down with it, absently plucking the strings.

*****

Two weeks. No, more. It had been 17 days. Of absolutely nothing. And Sherlock was driving John up the wall. He hadn’t been able to come up with anything, and when John asked him about it he either glared and walked away or screeched out John’s many failings and faults and pointed out how incredibly stupid the world was. When he wasn’t in his mind palace or sulking around, he played his violin. ‘Played’ being a general and far too kind word for the way he abused the poor instrument, coaxing out of it the worst shrieks and scrapes that sounded like tortured souls begging for death. (John’s time with the Holmes brothers was adding quite a lot to his dramatic side, not that it was non-existent before.) He’d mentioned that to Sherlock once, who’d blinked and said ‘good’ before continuing. John might have even gone as far as to hope that someone else would be murdered, if it would make Sherlock quiet down.

Mycroft had disappeared, no doubt to settle the government issue he’d asked Sherlock to help with. John found the relationship between the two brothers amusing. The greatest minds John had ever come across, and they acted like petty five-year-olds together. Yet John could see that underneath and the childish name-calling and ridiculous scheming (Sherlock had thrown mud all over Mycroft’s cake once, and dear older brother retaliated by hiding Sherlock’s violin until he’d apologised), the two brothers loved each other immensely, and shared a deep bond that spanned centuries. It was quite sweet, actually.

“John!” _Speak of the devil,_ John thought, as Sherlock burst into his room. “We’re going to see Lestrade! Now!” He grabbed John’s coat off the peg on the wall and flung it at him, before stomping away. John rolled his eyes and followed, hoping Sherlock had a lead, or Lestrade had something for them.

Lestrade was sitting at his desk, absorbed in a file, when they entered. He looked up eagerly. “Oh, great, you’re here,” he said, sounding extremely relieved. “I found this on my desk when I came in this morning.” He showed them a photograph. It looked like a basement of some sort, and right in the centre was a safe. John looked at Sherlock curiously.

“Do you know where this is?” he asked. Sherlock was frowning at the photograph, eyes furrowed in concentration. He took the photograph from Lestrade, and held it up to the light. The look in his eyes was strange, slightly confused and almost.. was it? John knew Sherlock quite well by now, could read his moods and meaning better than others. And Sherlock looked slightly… shocked? Fearful?

“I- I might, yes.” He looked at Lestrade. “I need to take this back with me, I need to study it better.”

Lestrade hesitated. “I’m not sure- it’s evidence-“

“It’s meant for me, Lestrade. It’s a direct message to me. I need to take it back with me.” There was something in his tone that was more than just haughty stubbornness. Evidently, Lestrade noticed too. His eyes narrowed slightly. Finally, he sighed, knowing there was no point in arguing.

“Fine, then. Tell me when you get anything.” Sherlock, to John’s surprise, nodded absently before turning away with it. John didn’t know what the connection was between Sherlock and the contents of the photograph. Was it the safe that was unsettling him, or the room? What could possibly be in that safe? Why was 'M' sending them clues at all? John wanted to ask Sherlock, but wasn’t sure if the detective would answer.

They returned to the castle, Sherlock immediately shutting himself in his room. He didn’t emerge the entire day. John tried his door after he’d had his supper, to find it locked. He tried knocking, but Sherlock didn’t answer. Giving up, he decided to turn in, hoping that Sherlock would get to the bottom of whatever it was, and soon.

The next morning he found himself shaken awake by Sherlock. The detective’s eyes were wide and excited.

“Sherlock? What is it?” He sat up.

“Get up and get dressed, John,” said Sherlock, his tone grim despite the glow in his eyes. “We’re going to London.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roman invasion of Britain was gradual, and started in 43AD, under Emperor Claudius. Caesar's invasion was much before, in around 54BC. There were a subsequent series of attacks, spanning centuries. The one Mycroft talks about here Scotland. (Sourse: Wikipedia).  
> The process of confirming identity via blood tests didn't exist at this time. It was only in the 1920's that blood types were found and identified. I've sent that process back in time a couple of decades, and so you can take it like they identified the blood to be the same blood type as the cabbie's. But for the record, whether they could confirm it or not, it was his.  
> Please review! And you can also find me on tumblr: pandabirdsrock.tumblr.com. Feel free to drop by, my inbox is always open for anything! :D


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first off, I am so sorry that this took so long, I really didn't expect it to. I had a bit of a problem, because I suddenly forgot one of my major plot ideas, which I must say almost never happens. There was also my exams, which got over only at the end of March. After that, I'm afraid that between never wanting to do any work ever again and my writer's block, it took me far longer than it should have to write this chapter. I'll try to be more regular with my updates for the next two months I'm on holiday.  
> I think you should also know that I've changed the innkeeper from the first few chapters from Mrs. Hudson to Mrs. Turner, because I wanted Mrs. Hudson in this chapter. Sorry about the mix-up!  
> I'd like to thank aconsultinghufflepuff, for beta'ing this chapter for me. Your tips were supremely helpful, my dear!

John blinked awake. “London?” He asked, his voice rough from sleep.

“Yes, John, London. What I just said. Now get up and get ready. We shouldn’t be there long, but you might want to pack just in case.”

“And why must we suddenly rush off to London?”

“The case, John, surely you remember,” said Sherlock, in that ‘oh you mortals how do you even manage to keep breathing’ tone of his. John wasn’t very fond of that tone, which was unfortunate because Sherlock used it so often. Mycroft’s was at least more subtle.

“Yes, I remember the case, I’m not a goldfish. What has it got to do with London, though?”

“You remember that photograph?” asked Sherlock excitedly. “I know where it was taken. So we have to go to London. Now hurry up, we’ve wasted a lot of time already.” He swept out of the room, looking more dramatic than he had any right to. John, realising that he wasn’t going to get back to sleep anyway, got up and starting throwing clothes into a briefcase.

“Wait- John.” The doctor looked up to see Sherlock standing in his doorway again, looking curious.

“What is it?” asked he asked, while contemplating on how many jumpers he ought to take.

“What did you mean, ‘I’m not a goldfish’?” Sherlock sounded genuinely amazed at this expression. John smiled. Sometimes, very rarely, Sherlock was rather like a small child when encountering things he didn’t know about, dealing with them through amazement and fascination, and a slight bit of recklessness. It was extremely endearing. (John would say ‘adorable’, but that sounded rather too intimate, and he didn’t know if he wanted to think about intimacy with Sherlock Holmes.)

“It’s just a comparison. Goldfish apparently have an extremely short memory span, lasting only about a minute,” he explained.

“Oh,” said Sherlock, now looking promptly bored with this detail, evidently deciding it wasn’t worth putting up in his Mind Palace. “I suppose Anderson and Donovan might be descended from goldfish, then.” He swept out of the room again, and John thought he’d seen enough dramatic sweeping out of a room for one morning. Finally deciding to take three jumpers, he folded them neatly and put them into his case. He looked outside the window of his room, stepping towards it. It was still fairly dark outside, although it was evident that it would be light soon.

He finished packing, and then put on his coat and decided to go down. Sherlock would no doubt be waiting, and would complain loudly at how late John was making him. He closed the room door (force of habit, he supposed, he knew quite well that no one would break in, and he couldn’t keep Sherlock and Mycroft out of where they wanted to be no matter what he did), and turned to go down the hallway. Only to run straight into Sherlock, who was glaring at his brother (who had apparently returned from London). Mycroft was in turn looking at him with his usual highly disapproving and patronizing stare.

“It is _my_ case, Mycroft,” snarled Sherlock, who seemed to have hardly registered the fact that John had walked into him just a moment ago. Mycroft sighed and looked at him.

“Sherlock, this case is beyond you. It is more than your petty locked-room murders. There are forces here you have not dealt with for centuries. I’m warning you, don’t go to London.” John thought that if locked-room murders were ‘petty’ in comparison, this must be a serious issue. But then again, he supposed to someone like Mycroft, they would be in any situation. Sherlock looked like he didn’t share this view. His eyes were slits.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he hissed. “You were practically begging me to go and sort out some boring government crisis for you just days ago.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow ever so slightly at him, like a schoolteacher encouraging a pupil who was close to the answer, but also close to giving up. “You know perfectly well what I mean, Sherlock. Yes, I was just there, and I have good reason to believe our cases were connected, and am rather grateful for once that you were your usual stubborn and infuriating self. And if I must repeat myself, _lay off this case_.”

Sherlock stepped back, turning his chin up in a haughty way that annoyed Lestrade. It didn’t look like it did more than faintly amuse his brother. “People are dying.”

Mycroft looked like he was about to laugh. (An expression John had never seen on him before and looked so odd it took John a moment before he could place it). “People die everyday, brother dear. And it’s hardly as though you’re solving these cases to ‘help’ people, is it?” He gave his younger brother a last disapproving look before he turned away. “I’m serious, Sherlock. Leave this ‘M’ alone.”

John raised an eyebrow after him. “You’d think he’d be glad to be rid of us for a while, wouldn’t you,” he said sarcastically, glancing at Sherlock, who to say ‘looked furious’ would be the understatement of the century. He stormed off, and John, sighing deeply and contemplating the events that had gotten himself caught up in all of this, followed.

“So you know the room that was in the photograph.”

They had taken the first train out of London, and had managed to get an entire compartment to themselves, as few were out at this hour. John and Sherlock sat on opposite sides, John trying to discern the gleam Sherlock’s eyes had held ever since he’d woken John up that morning. It was a very different sort of gleam than Sherlock’s usual ‘oh-brilliant-an-interesting-case’ gleam, and John didn’t quite know what to make of it. Sherlock was clearly trying to stop himself from jumping out of the train and running all the way to London (that particular myth about vampires was true, apparently, as Sherlock had proved by practically flying down to the village and returning with a loaf of bread in under 15 seconds. John now knew where all his food came from. He’d meant to rebuke Sherlock for stealing, but Sherlock had simply rolled his eyes at him, and John supposed he- and the villagers- should be glad the Holmes’ brothers restricted themselves to simply stealing normal food). He kept fidgeting in his seat, more excited than he had been when he’d found out about the cabbie.

“Yes, John, have you just realized? I know the room that was in that photograph. I know to whom the room belongs. Clearly, Mr. M knows I know, and I fear what may happen if we do not reach the place in time. What I don’t know is what is in that safe, for I have never seen it before. We are going to London because I don’t like not knowing. Do you follow, or must I repeat myself, over-enunciating so that your tiny, placid brain can understand?” Sherlock said this all in that rapid-fire way he normally did his deductions. (Or insults, truth be told.)

John huffed. “I’m fine, thanks,” he said. He didn’t know whether or not Sherlock detected the trace of sarcasm in his tone (for a man who hardly spoke any other way, he did often miss it. John supposed it was because he thought lesser brains- like John’s or Lestrade’s- were too dull and stupid to use such a thing. Whatever it was, there were times when Sherlock took everything at face value, and later got annoyed when John explained that he didn’t _actually_ mean to say ‘oh yes, you may definitely use me as a test subject to test your poisonous mould’). Or indeed, whether or not Sherlock had heard him at all, for by the time John had finished speaking the man had turned to look outside the window, clearly lost in his own mind rather than taking in the fields that swept by.

After a reasonable amount of time that John hadn’t bothered to keep track of, they arrived. “Should we take a cab?” asked John. Sherlock glanced around, taking in their surroundings. John suddenly realized that Sherlock didn’t have a bag with him. He would have asked after it, only Sherlock had that faraway look in his eyes that meant he was thinking hard, and therefore wouldn’t care about such trivialities.

“You take a cab. I’ll run,” said Sherlock. “I need to get to know London again, breathe it in. We’re clearly going to be here a while. The address-“ He looked back at John- “is 221B Baker Street. I’ll be there by the time you arrive.” He then took off, moving at an impossible speed (it clearly was possible, given that John was seeing it, but it should have been impossible. But lots of ‘impossible’ things had revealed themselves to John in these past few months, so he wondered if anything was going to surprise him anymore). Yet he blended into the streets, making it look completely natural that he was out of sight in the blink of an eye. John, being a very mortal and therefore very normal human being who did not possess superhuman speed, walked over to the nearest cab.

*****

The cab stopped right outside a large house. It looked handsome, but in the comfortable, cosy kind of way. He was getting out of the cab when Sherlock arrived. John looked at him, wondering whether this was where they were going to stay while in London. He certainly hoped so.

“I have a flat here,” explained Sherlock, once again correctly deducing what was on John’s mind. ‘’221B. The landlady maintains it for me while I’m away, which is most of the time, but I pay her quite well so she can’t complain.” He climbed up the few steps that led to the door and knocked.

A short, sweet-looking old lady opened the door. “Sherlock!” she exclaimed upon seeing him, clearly pleasantly surprised. John decided he liked her immediately, even more so when Sherlock smiled and allowed her to embrace him. Although frankly, he found that more shocking than anything. He didn’t think he’d seen Sherlock ever do more than a stiff handshake, he couldn’t even imagine the man in a warm embrace. (Before that moment, of course).

“John, this is Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson, this is my.. friend, Dr. John Watson.” John smiled, pleased (and mildly surprised) at being introduced as Sherlock’s friend. He stepped forward.

“How do you do, Mrs. Hudson? I hope you don’t mind us dropping in on you like this, I’m not sure if Sherlock warned you that we were coming.” He ignored the exasperated eye-roll Sherlock directed at him from behind Mrs. Hudson’s back.

She smiled at him. “Well you know how he is,” she said fondly (there was really no other word to describe it), “It’s no trouble at all, really. I’ve kept everything the way it was when you last left, Sherlock, which means you’ll probably have to tidy up. And Dr. Watson, there’s another bedroom upstairs. Why don’t you gentlemen get settled, I’ll bring up some tea.” She smiled at them and went inside the house.

“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson.” John smiled and hauled his luggage up the stairs. Sherlock followed him until they reached the flat, going inside. John put his things in the spare bedroom. It was smaller than his room at the castle, but still quite big. It already had a bed made up, and a small table beside it. On one side of the wall was a wardrobe. John left his suitcase inside and went downstairs.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa on his back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling and his hands pressed together under his chin. John had long ago recognised this to be his ‘thinking’ pose. John looked around at what was clearly the drawing room. The place was a mess. There were books and papers strewn around everywhere, and what looked suspiciously like bullet holes in the wall. It was completely chaotic, and yet John was sure that Sherlock knew exactly where everything was, and that in some strange, incomprehensible-to-mortals way, everything had a place and was in it. It suited Sherlock. That, however, didn’t mean it suited _him_ , John. Quite the opposite in fact. He cleared his throat.

“So, I’m guessing that all this junk is yours,” he said. Sherlock, unsurprisingly, didn’t answer or give any indication that he had even recognised John’s presence in the room or even the existence of anything outside whatever was going on in his head. Luckily, (or maybe unluckily) John was experienced in such situations and knew that even though Sherlock wouldn’t react if you poured a cup of tea on him. (He’d just wander into your room an hour later asking, genuinely puzzled and curious, why he was drenched in tea, and after you sarcastically reply that ‘Mycroft did it’ he’d eat all the sweets in the pantry and then exclaim how ridiculous it was that his brother should come all the way from Greece, where he happened to be at that moment, just to pour tea on him and leave. He would then figure out the whole thing a week later, after whatever had been plaguing him had finally been dealt with, and literally drag all your jumpers through the mud. Until that point however, it would be very amusing). But he would take notice (even if only to rudely dismiss your theory) if you simply said something of relevance to whatever he was oh-so-seriously contemplating. In this case, John was sure that it wasn’t the state of the flat, but that didn’t matter, because the point was to get his attention.

Before he could say anything, however, Mrs. Hudson came in, carrying a tray with a pot of tea, two cups, and a plate of biscuits. John was about to thank her, and was wondering what he should do with all that tea and biscuits because Sherlock certainly wasn’t going to pay attention to them, when the detective suddenly leapt up.

“Goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Hudson, setting the tray down and backing away a little. “What is the matter?”

“Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock, his voice grave, “Has anyone been in 221C since I last came?”

She looked confused. “I don’t think so, why?”

Sherlock stood up and stepped towards her, pinning her with his gaze. “Mrs. Hudson,” he said, in a tone that only seemed to get more ‘life-or-death-situation’ with every syllable, “Think. This is important. Very important. I need you to tell me clearly, if anyone at all has been in 221C, in the past two years.”

Mrs. Hudson looked more confused as Sherlock grew more serious. “I-I’m-Yes. I think so. There was a man, it’s been months now, he wanted to see the place. He left, of course, and didn’t come back. Not that I blame him, it’s all dark and damp down there.”

“What man? What did he look like?”

“Well, he was Irish, I think. Shorter than you. Dark hair. That’s all I remember. Why is it so important?”

“I need the keys to 221C immediately, Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock, ignoring her question. The old lady looked at him curiously, but seemed to decide that it was better not to argue.

“I keep them in my flat, 221A. I’ll go fetch them,” she said.

Sherlock nodded. “We’ll be outside 221C. Come quickly,” he said, and then swept out of the room. Mrs. Hudson looked at John.

“What do you think this is about?” she asked him. John had a pretty good idea, but he didn’t say, simply making a noncommittal noise. She sighed.

“I’ll go get those keys, then,” she said. John followed her out. “221C is just downstairs, only flat there so you can’t miss it. I’ll be right with you.” John nodded and went down, to find Sherlock standing outside a door with a ‘C’ painted on it in faded gold. He looked agitated and nervous, as much so as when he had first seen that photograph. He didn’t even glance at John, instead glaring at the door as if he expected the devil to be hiding behind it, and muttering under his breath.

Then, John heard footsteps and the jingling of keys as Mrs. Hudson joined them. “I don’t know what you expect to find in here, Sherlock,” she said, “Like I said, only a young man came here about a year ago, and I watched as he left the room.”

“Just open the door, Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock, a bite of impatience cutting through the slight wariness in his voice. Again, she looked at him oddly, as though expecting him to have a nervous breakdown. Which would be over-exaggerating if it were anyone else, but John was just as afraid as she was, because Sherlock was almost never like this. To see him in such a state, those who didn’t know him would say he was ‘mildly concerned’, but John (and clearly Mrs. Hudson) knew him better, and knew that it was rather closer to ‘might as well be almost screaming in terror’. Well, perhaps that was a _tad_ exaggerated, but John couldn’t find the right words. Now looking anxious herself, Mrs. Hudson cautiously opened the door.

As he stepped inside after Sherlock, John gasped in surprise, although he had been having his suspicions ever since Sherlock had asked about this place. Even if he ignored from the object that sat on the floor in the middle of the room, John recognized the place easily.

It was the same room from the photograph.

In the centre, as in the photo, sat a small black safe. Sherlock strode towards it immediately, both he and John ignoring Mrs. Hudson’s ‘Now where on earth did that come from?’, and crouched in front of it, his back at an angle to John. The safe was secured with a small padlock. Sherlock drew a tool from his the pocket on the side of his coat and began to pick it. He opened it quickly and without trouble, and John wondered if that was Sherlock’s skill at picking locks, or if ‘M’ had intended for it to be so easy. As the safe door opened, it looked empty to John from where he was standing, but then Sherlock reached in and pulled something out, which John couldn’t see from their current positions.

“Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock, in a shaky voice that sent shivers of dread down John’s spine, “John. I’m afraid we’re all in very grave danger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John says a goldfish's memory span is only about a minute, but this is acutally not true. It was previously thought to be only a few seconds, but recent studies have shown that it could even be up to five months. I deliberately didn't put this in, for the sake of referencing Mycroft's 'living in a world of goldfish' line, and also because studies on the memory spans of fish weren't really advanced in 1900.  
> I'll really try to update sooner, atleast while I'm still on holiday. Thank you to all who read this fic, who comment and leave kudos. You're all so lovely, and keep me motivated to write more!  
> You can find me on tumblr, my url is dragons-and-pandas. (Previously pandabirdsrock). My ask is always open, feel free tp drop by and start talking about anything at all! =D


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised faster updates, and I'm really sorry. I only have my own laziness to blame this time. Thanks to everyone who left a kudos or a comment, you guys really make my day, so please continue to do so! Hope you like it, please review!

John realized that he might have forgotten that the man he shared a castle with (and, for the past three days, a nice flat in central London) and who was certainly a closer friend than any he had ever had, was an actual vampire. He wasn’t sure how exactly he’d forgotten this rather significant detail, but he was quite traumatically reminded of it when he went downstairs one evening to walk in on Sherlock feeding. John had immediately walked out again, blinked, and then went back into the room. There was a man lying on his back on the sofa, and Sherlock was kneeling in front of him next to his head, his mouth on the man’s neck. John sighed.

“Sherlock?” The vampire detached himself from the man’s carotid and looked at John. His fangs were still out, and there were tiny drops of blood on them, but so miniscule that you had to really look to notice. John was very thankful that Sherlock was a very clean eater, he didn’t think he could have borne the whole vampire business if a feeding always left a large amount of blood on the carpet, or if Sherlock had looked up at him from his prey with his eyes wild and his mouth dripping, like it was described in novels. Instead, Sherlock looked like how anyone else did when they were eating, and looked up at John like any normal person who'd been interrupted during their meal.

“Yes John?” Sherlock seemed mildly amused. He’d probably deduced that John had forgotten that he wasn’t in fact a normal man (well, as normal as he could be considering his fascination with grotesque crime and the fact that he lived in a bloody castle). He reached up and pinched a spot on the man’s neck, clearly where his fangs had pierced through, to stop the bleeding.

“Who is that, and why are you feeding on him here, in our flat, where anyone can walk in on you?”

“Client. He was boring, I was hungry. He was going to faint anyway, he hasn’t slept in three days and hasn’t eaten all of yesterday. Saved me the trouble of having to go out and find someone and somewhere to feed in the middle of London.” Sherlock sounded bored _. Well_ , thought John, _at least he’s eating._

“Right. I’m assuming you won’t want any tea, then?” John wandered into the kitchen. _Just another typical day with your detective vampire flatmate friend._

“I do, actually. I hate the taste of blood.”

“You’re a six hundred and seventy two year-old vampire, who hates the taste of blood?” John asked, amused.

“It’s so _metallic_ ,” Sherlock complained, “and this one’s not been properly nourished the past few days, so it tastes even worse. And he’s an alcoholic too. That’s probably why his wife’s having an affair with his brother.”

John glanced at him. He was still kneeling in front of the sofa, looking as defensive as a child caught while being mischievous. John couldn’t stop himself grinning fondly as he turned back to the tea. He went back to the living room with two cups of the steaming beverage, handing one to Sherlock and then settling down on the armchair.

“So when will he wake up?” he asked, nodding at the unconscious man on the sofa. Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully.

“I should say in ten minutes or so,” he replied. “When he does, you ought to offer him tea or brandy. Your presence will be welcomed, and not at all a surprise, as you are a doctor. Then I will inform him of the unfortunate truth regarding his wife’s recent suspicious behaviour, and we shall send Mr. Smith on his way.” John nodded his agreement.

“We’ve been in London for three days, how did you get a client?” asked John. He didn’t even know that Sherlock _took_ clients, let alone that he was apparently well-known enough to get them.

“Oh, I sometimes solve a few cases for Scotland Yard, whenever Lestrade’s being boring and Mycroft’s more insufferable than usual. One time, the paper printed my name, and people found out my address. They later realized that I’m usually not here, but they send me letters or telegrams. Most are horribly dull, but occasionally there are one or two that make me glad Mrs. Hudson has very little regard for my privacy,” answered Sherlock.

“So what, they just check in from time to time, and if you’re here they come and talk to you in person and if not write to you?”

Sherlock shrugged. Apparently how he got his clients seemed to cross into the ‘dull’ area that was beneath His Mightiness.

John finished his tea, and then went upstairs to retrieve his hip flask. When he got back downstairs, Mr. Smith was sitting up.

“I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Holmes,” he was saying.

“Oh, not at all, Mr. Smith. Quite the opposite in fact. Ah, here’s my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson,” replied Sherlock smoothly, passing over all responsibility of interaction to John.

Ten minutes later, after an apparently very shocking and not at all tactful revealing of an affair, and a tactless argument about the tactlessness of the reveal of the affair, a very flustered and perplexed Mr. Smith was shown out the door by the exasperated doctor and the bored detective, a half- drunk flask of brandy still in his hand.

Once Mr. Smith was safely well out the door, John turned to glare at Sherlock, who looked at John’s disapproving frown with mild curiosity and confusion.

“You can’t just outright _tell_ people that their partner is being unfaithful, Sherlock,” John explained. Sherlock looked even more confused.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s news that no one likes to hear, and so- you know what, never mind.” John realized that it was a lost cause when he saw Sherlock’s expression go to ‘more confused’ and then to ‘oh, tedious’. He walked to the armchair and collapsed on it, wondering what on earth made him give that man his hip flask. He saw Sherlock shoot him one more ‘aren’t-you-mortals-so-weird’ look before flopping down on the sofa.

After the two of them spent fifteen minutes (a very long fifteen minutes, according to John) sitting quietly and staring into space, John decided he needed to get out for a while. He stood up, and Sherlock’s head immediately turned towards him.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“What makes you think I’m going anywhere?” shot back John, even as he reached for his coat. He looked at Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow at him pointedly. John sighed in defeat.

“To the pub. I think there’s one around the corner,” he said, pulling his coat on and deciding not to button it.

“Why?” Was it just John, or was Sherlock being even more dense than usual lately?

“What do you mean, why?” he snapped.

“Why are you going out to the pub?” Oh for God’s sake- John took a deep breath.

“Haven’t you ever been to a pub before?” He asked. He knew Sherlock was snobby and posh and lived in a castle, but surely in six hundred years he’d been to a pub and knew what people did there.

“Not in over two hundred years, no,” said Sherlock. It was John’s turn to look curious and interested.

“You haven’t been to a pub in over two hundred years?” he asked. A flicker of annoyance passed over Sherlock’s face.

“That’s what I just said, John.” John grinned. He had an idea that, at the very least, would make this evening less boring.

*****

There was a reason that Sherlock hadn’t set foot in a pub for over two hundred years. Or, to be more accurate, there were _reasons_. It was mainly because of people. (For most things, he found, the reason was people. That fact was intriguing, infuriating, and tedious all at once). Whether in the late 17th century, or now at the beginning of the 20th, there were still far too many people for Sherlock’s liking (which, to be fair, was any number more than zero, or in special cases, one, or in _very_ special cases two, but still), and there was always so much _noise._ Vampires did actually have very sensitive hearing, so the din that was enough to deafen a normal person was 10 times worse for a vampire. John seemed to realize this too, but it was too late, as he’d already dragged Sherlock down to the nearest den of stupidity, and so they might as well stay there for another hour or so.

He told John as much when the man began to open his mouth, looking slightly apologetic. The doctor shut it again, then nodded and started making his way to the bar. Sherlock looked around distastefully, then followed.

By the time he got there, John was already knocking back a pint, and another stood waiting in front of him. John pointed at it and looked at him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, doing his best ‘I-don’t-understand-mortal-customs’ look, hoping it would dissuade John from making him drink it. No such luck. John nudged the drink towards him, and Sherlock, knowing he would deeply regret this evening for many years to come, drank it.

“Je- Jesus, Sherlock,” said John. “How are you still so…. Ok?” They were both on their fourth drink of the evening, and John’s words were already beginning to slur. Sherlock himself wasn’t as affected, probably because his blood did not flow naturally and therefore did not poison easily. Looking at John, who had half fallen of the stool, Sherlock was very thankful of this.

He did not think that John would understand the science of this in his current state, however, so he simply said, “I have an unusually high tolerance for alcohol.”

John squinted at him, and then said, “Posh git.” Sherlock was surprised to find that he chuckled at that.

“Right,” said John, making an attempt to sit up straighter on his stool, “We’re going to get you drunk.” John sounded very determined about this. Sherlock scoffed.

“John, no.” Sherlock was sure that he’d have to drink the entire pub to get drunk. Even then, he wasn’t sure.

“Yessss,” said John, leaning forward a little and stabbing a finger in Sherlock’s face, “You are always.. always… so…..” Sherlock decided to give him a minute. “Tense!” exclaimed John, having triumphantly found the word he was looking for, “and serious, and- and it’ll be funny.”

“Funny?”

“Yes. Funny. It better be funny.”

“John, you wound me. You would have me forfeit my mental and physical faculties for the sake of your amusement?” asked Sherlock, feigning deep hurt.

John simply looked at him and said, again very firmly, “Yes. Now drink. I know you’ve got the money.” Sherlock smirked. This could indeed be rather fun. It would be useful, after all, to know exactly how long and how much alcohol it would take to inebriate him.

An hour later, Sherlock had had fourteen more drinks, John only two more. The bartender was looking at them suspiciously, and Sherlock’s head was aching.

“So,” asked John, “How’z it feel?”

Sherlock blinked, considering the question. He still wasn’t completely drunk, but he could feel himself getting there. “Dizzy,” he said. That was one word for it, after all. “Sooooo dizzy, John. I can feel the earth go around the moon.”

John grinned. “We go around the sun, idiot,” he said. Sherlock frowned.

“Why would we go around the sun?” he asked. That made no sense. Why would they go around anything? Why not just stay where they were? Everything was all so _stupid_.

“I- I don’t know,” said John, looking as confused as Sherlock was. That was good. He wasn’t the only one who didn’t know things.

“Of course you don’t know, John,” he explained. “If _I_ don’t know, how would you?” This made perfect sense, of course, because Sherlock was older and he was a far better observer than John.

“I knew the earth went around the sun, and you didn’t,” John pointed out. Well, that was annoying.

“Shut up John,” he said. John laughed. Sherlock frowned, tried to scowl (he strongly suspected, when he thought back to that evening, that he failed) and grabbed another drink. He had three more in quick succession, while John watched on in awe. Yes, this was nice. Sherlock was doing something that normal people couldn’t and John was impressed. This was the natural order of things. He was now a lot more dizzy, and his head felt very light, as if he were floating. He looked at John.

“John, I’m drunk,” he announced triumphantly. John grinned again and cheered.

*****

“Ssssshhh,” whispered John loudly from behind him. “Mrs. Hudson’s probably asleep.”

It was that time of night when it was so late it was very early, and they’d stumbled back home after having been kicked out of the pub along with a few others who’d been too drunk to stand. Sherlock fumbled around with the key, and managed to get the door open.

They stumbled around in the dark, and crashed down on top of each other on the stairs. Immediately, a light switch was flicked on.

“Ahh, Hudders,” said Sherlock (looking back, this in particular would haunt him for the rest of his days) as he looked around and found his landlady standing in front of them in a dressing gown.

“Are you two drunk?” she asked.

“Sherlock has a high tolerance for alcohol,” John announced. Mrs. Hudson looked unimpressed.

“Try not to make too much noise then, boys. Goodnight.” She gave one last look at them and then went back inside.

“I like her,” said John, “she’s nice.”

“Yes,” replied Sherlock. They somehow managed to get upstairs without major injury. It was John who fumbled with the key this time, but then finally they were inside the flat, sitting in their armchairs.

“Hey, Sherlock?” asked John after a while. “What was in that safe?” Sherlock looked at him, debating on whether or not he should say. (He was surprised to find that he still retained enough of his mental facilities to do this).

“What safe?” There was a chance that John was talking about a very different safe, after all. (Another thing from that evening that Sherlock would never speak of, was the fact that he himself wasn't really quite sure. Of course, there was only one safe that John would most probably be asking him about, but there were lots of safes, after all. Mycroft had a very nice one back at the castle. And it was a testament to how drunk he was that he thought anything of Mycroft's as 'nice').

“You know, the one in 221C.” Apparently not. Sherlock leaned forward and said, in a very dramatic whisper,

“A book.” John’s eyes widened and he leaned forward as well.

“Oh. What book?” He sounded far more interested than he probably would have if sober. Sherlock didn't really know what to think of that.

“A spell book. The same as the one used by the witch who turned me.” Sherlock was surprised at how intense John’s gaze had become, and suspected his own was just the same. The air seemed to have gotten thicker, and his head was suddenly clearer.

“Is it a copy?” John’s voice was clearer too.

“No. All witches marked their spellbooks with a personal mark in those days, like a sign or a scent or even a spell. It’s hers.”

“You never told me how you were turned,” said John, sounding curious. Sherlock knew he hadn’t. He hadn’t wanted to. He didn’t like thinking about his turning. It had been every bit as painful as lore and stories would have you believe, and so much more as well. He didn’t like thinking about the pain, or the things he’d done in his fury. No one but him and the witch knew the full details of his turning, not even Mycroft or his wretched father, who’d arranged the whole thing in the first place. He certainly wasn’t going to tell John, and definitely not when they were both as drunk as they were. But he found, to his surprise, that he trusted the doctor. If he were to tell a single person, he would tell John.

“There was a long process,” he said finally. “It was painful, and I was locked in a dungeon for most of it.”

John stared at him for a long time, and then said softly, “You didn’t want it, did you.” It wasn't a question.

Sherlock shook his head, and then stopped when the room started to float. “No,” he said.

“So what does it mean, Sherlock?” asked John. “Why did M send you the spellbook?”

Sherlock had been pondering the same question for the past three days. The simplest answer was the obvious one. “Because,” said Sherlock slowly, “He knows I’m a vampire. The witch’s descendants are still alive, I keep track of them. He obviously knows them too. He’s coming after me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, disclaimer: Everything I know about being drunk is from movies and books and tv. So if anything seems off, tell me and I'll fix it. Thank you!  
> You can follow me on Tumblr at dragons-and-pandas.tumblr.com. My ask box is always open! :D  
>  **Note: 24th Sep, So I had previously typed my tumblr user name as 'dragonsandpandas', because I am the type of sad loser to get their own url wrong. So I've finally realized the mistake, and corrected it. If y'all wanna check out my tumblr, you know the right place to go. Sorry about the confusion! :D**


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dears! I'm so very sorry I haven't updated. It's been ages, I know, my longest gap yet. I remember promising someone, around 3 months ago, that I'd update in a week or so. I honestly didn't mean to lie, I had at the time intended to update soon. But I have been extraodinarily busy, and I will continue to be for quite a while. So because I'm on a bit of a break now, here's another chapter. I can't predict when updates will be, but they will come eventually. I have no plans of abandoning this fic! So please, be patient. Your comments and kudos really helped, thank you so much, and I do hope you'll keep commenting. Hope you enjoy! :D  
> Also, in my last chapter I had mentioned my tumblr url as 'dragonsandpandas'. I'm sorry to say that I'm one of those sad losers who gets their own url wrong. It's actually 'dragons-and-pandas'. I've made the correction in my notes in the previous chapter, and I thought I should mention it again. Drop by sometime, my inbox is always open!

Mycroft Holmes had always been ambitious. He didn’t know why, because he didn’t bother to analyse it, but he’d always liked the idea of power. The idea of being able to control, to some degree, the amount of stupid things done by the many imbeciles of the world. His father had been much the same, only far less intelligent, as proved by his choosing priesthood, while Mycroft instead became a favourite at the King’s court. He was soon the most powerful man in the empire other than the King himself, but His Majesty was always easily influenced.

To his father, discipline and power were the ruling forces of life. It would make sense to assume that that was why he’d chosen the clergy. It was definitely not because he was religious. He had been, however, extremely orthodox and conservative.

This was why Mycroft had been surprised to receive an urgent and coded message from his father. It asked him to vouch for a certain Ophelia Arathorn, whom Mycroft knew was to be tried for witchcraft.

It had been extremely suspicious, but Mycroft had gone along with it, deciding that the best way to discover his father’s plans would be to first let him continue them.

He would regret that decision for the rest of his life.

The details of the events that followed, spread over months, and nearly reaching into years, are the only memories from his entire life that Mycroft prefers to hide away, and never think of. To put it briefly, they’d resulted in his father’s and the witch’s death, and subsequently in Mycroft turning himself into a vampire using same methods that had been used on his younger brother.

His next step had been to burn the witch’s spellbook. He’d swept away the ashes himself, and dumped them in the courtyard, and watched the wind carry them away. The next morning, he had woken to find it sitting good as new on his bedside table. Frankly, he hadn’t been surprised.

He’d tried everything. Ripping it apart and feeding the pages to the dogs, throwing it in a vat of acid, he had even burnt it again a few times, making sure the ashes were scattered thoroughly. Nothing had worked.

Mycroft had never been a fool. He had known that the witch had had descendants, next of kin. He’d searched for them, and tried to eliminate as many as possible. He was sure a few had escaped. The book needed to be kept out of their reach.

In the end, he’d locked it in a trunk, and had even cast a small spell from the book, to help hide the trunk. (He had always had a penchant for alchemy and the Dark Arts, not for the purpose of using them to attain selfish goals, but from a subjective, scientific point of view. He was fascinated by the way the laws of nature were bent and twisted in the hands of the practitioners of these arts. He hadn’t been able to resist, when a genuine witch’s spellbook fell into his hands, looking into it. In the end, he realised it was a matter of simple logic, in part. The other part did indeed involve the force of something beyond humanity’s comprehension, at that point and now, but logic and reasoning were enough to work a few simple spells.) No matter where it was, or when it was, the trunk would make itself look ordinary and unremarkable. He, and he alone, would see it for what it truly was.

So naturally, when he found a photograph on his brother’s desk showing that very trunk, and overheard Sherlock and the doctor discussing a safe, he had very nearly gone into a panic. (‘Nearly’ being the key word, as Mycroft Holmes never panics. He never loses control. Well, he has once. But that time was very long ago, and under the circumstances, completely understandable.)

He’d also been keeping tabs, and when a certain ‘’Irene Adler’’ started moving in the very circles he so closely watched, he’d known immediately what was going on (or rather, drawn conclusions to which confirmations could not be received, but _he was Mycroft,_ after all), and had done his best to stop Sherlock and John leaving for London. He was disappointed, but not entirely surprised at his failure to do so. Six hundred and seventy two years had taught him that even if he ruled the world (which he sort of did), the one area he would never understand, never have a leg to stand on, never really control, was the enigma that was his younger brother.

*****

John woke up with the biggest headache he’d ever experienced, excluding perhaps the time he’d been temporarily deafened by a blast from a nearby canon in Afghanistan. He groaned and rubbed his forehead, willing the pounding to stop. (It didn’t, unfortunately). He tried to go back to sleep, was once again unsuccessful, and then spent a good amount of time staring at the ceiling of his room, trying not to think. This was fairly easy. What was harder was trying to ignore his headache. What proved hardest, and also seemed the most imminent, was trying to remember what the hell had happened last night.

He stayed in bed for the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon, occasionally taking sips from the bottle of water he always took to bed with him, mulling over his thoughts. He remembered taking Sherlock to the pub, he recalled having his third drink, and then the rest was all a vague blur.

Around three in the afternoon, he finally regained the use of his limbs, and most of his braincells.

It was lucky he did, as it was then that Sherlock chose to traipse into his room, with a thunderous expression on his face.

“John!” He called upon entering. John winced, Sherlock’s voice was a bit too loud for his ears, he’d not yet fully recovered from his hangover.

Sherlock stomped (yes, quite literally, looking much like a petulant child as he did so, but then, that’s how he almost always looked) up to John’s bed and sat down at the edge of it. “Last night. Explain.” He said abruptly.

John squinted at him. No, he didn’t quite look as though he were joking or being sarcastic. John thought he’d ask anyway, to make sure, “You’re not serious?”

Sherlock fixed him with that piercing glare he seemed to have reserved for whenever someone asked him this question, which was often enough.

“Sherlock, we got drunk.”

The detective scoffed. “Oh, bravo John. Yes, thank you ever so much for pointing out that highly intangible fact to me, I would have never realised it otherwise. No, tell me exactly what was said and done!”

His voice had risen slightly with that last sentence, and John winced again. “Blimey, Sherlock, I don’t remember!”

Sherlock’s gaze turned sceptical. “Honestly John, I recall you telling me you had a better memory than a goldfish.”

John sighed, rubbing his aching head with his hand. He really hadn’t recovered enough for this. “Sherlock, we were drunk last night- “

“Dear Lord, John, now you’re being even more repetitive than usual. Is it possible the alcohol has permanently damaged your brain cells?”

John groaned. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, what do you want? Are you telling me you don’t remember anything either? I would have thought you’d be less affected, as a vampire.”

Sherlock simply stood there for a moment, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the doctor. “I remember quite a bit,” he said finally, his tone sharp and low. “I want to know how much _you_ remember.”

John sat up a little straighter at this, confused and a bit worried. “Sherlock, if something happened last night that affects me, you should tell me-“

“Answer my question, John. How much do you remember?” His voice was still low, and he overenunciated his question, stressing on every word. His eyes looked.. odd. To John, he actually seemed- anxious? He wondered what that could be about.

John stared back at the vampire (ah, he’d finally got used to that now) and spoke carefully. “We went to a local pub. We wanted to see if you could get drunk, seeing as alcohol has little effect on you. I think we were kicked out, sometime after midnight. We came back, woke up Mrs. Hudson, I think, and then came up to the flat. I- er, I think we talked, for a while, but I don’t remember about what in particular. And, that’s it?”

He watched Sherlock as he spoke, searching the vampire’s face for any sign of reaction to his words. Sherlock’s face, however, was blank and neutral, and gave no indication that what John said meant anything at all. Once the doctor had finished reciting the few hazy details he could recollect, Sherlock nodded. His eyes were no longer narrowed and scrutinising, and he seemed vaguely pleased.

“That is quite the gist of last night, John, you haven’t forgotten anything of import. Thank you.” With that, he turned to leave.

“Wait, Sherlock!” John called. Sherlock paused at the doorway and turned.

“You would tell me if it’s something important, yes?” John asked, his tone making it quite clear that he expected Sherlock’s cooperation and would be very upset otherwise. Luckily for him, Sherlock nodded, and then bade him a quick recovery from his headache before closing the door on his way out.

John slumped back against his covers, stared at the ceiling, and sighed. He honestly didn’t know what to make of this encounter, but he decided that, for the time being at least, it was nothing of consequence. He lay like that for a while more, and then decided he’d fare better if he went downstairs and ate something.

When he did, he found Sherlock seated at the table, peering into his microscope. He looked up when John entered.

“Ah, good, you’re up,” he said, as though this were the first time they were talking that day. “I need tea.”

John sighed, knowing better than to expect that the lazy sod of a vampire to make it himself. He finished making two mugs, handed one to Sherlock, and settled on the sofa in the living room to drink his own.

“So, what are we doing today?” he asked. He wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to stay in. On one hand, he was still recovering from his hangover. On the other, he was aching for action. They’d come to London to investigate, after all. And besides, the fresh air would do him good. (John told himself this firmly, ignoring the fact that London had probably not experienced ‘’fresh air’’ since Tudor times. Perhaps Sherlock would know).

“Not today, no,” came Sherlock’s reply. “Tomorrow, yes.”

John looked up at him, finding Sherlock still engrossed in his work. “Why not today?”

“You are still recovering, John, and although you might wish to run around chasing criminals, I need you on top form. Also,” Sherlock looked up this time, a steely glint in his eyes as he met John’s gaze. “My sources tell me that a certain ‘meeting’ is to take place today, the effects of which would certainly be better dealt with tomorrow.”

John groaned. Why couldn’t the bloody vampire ever just give him a straight answer? “And what the Devil is that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock simply smirked, his eyes gleaming. “All in good time, John. I might be wrong, after all.”

John snorted. “O _f course_. The day you or your insufferable brother are wrong about something will be when the Sahara turns into a rainforest, and Mycroft would turn into an emotional blubbering baby.”

Sherlock laughed, a genuinely warm rumble, the kind that was so very rare and that John loved to hear, and then shifted his attention back to whatever was under his microscope. John chuckled as well, going back to his tea. He couldn’t shake the foreboding sense of something very dangerous about to occur. It was a small droplet of anxiety, the kind you either brushed away immediately, or it would consume you completely. The kind which never really went away, but kept coming back, every now and then.

*****

Sherlock had woken that morning with a dull, faint throbbing in his head, as though he’d bumped it against something, but not very hard. He got out of bed, washed, and then strode to the kitchen to make tea. (Or rather, to make John make tea). He felt a nagging sensation, a curious tug, from the time he woke up, which persisted while he went through his morning routine. When he walked into the living room and saw the spell book on the table, he stopped cold. Realisation dawned upon him. The cause for his seemingly unnecessary apprehension was staring at his face as the events of the previous night came flooding back.

He had never intended to mention The Book (Sherlock refused to think of it as anything with more significance) to John. There was, of course, no danger in it, nothing that would be cause for alarm, but Sherlock cursed his drunken self anyway, for revealing far more than he had planned to. No, this issue would not bring physical danger, speaking of The Book would not break some sort of spell, unleashing a horde of vile and unpleasant things, the world was most definitely not going to be brought to an early end (Sherlock vaguely remembered some old soothsayer, back from his own time, feeling rather sorry for people of the ‘’21st Century’’). What this issue would bring up were questions.

Sherlock had always marvelled at the power of words. Even as he abused this power through his deductions, and cutting remarks with thinly-veiled sarcasm, he couldn’t help but wonder. As weapons progressed and evolved and humanity brought up more innovative ways to kill each other, what always delivered that fatal blow in the end were a few sharply spoken words, a couple of biting remarks or “enquiries” aimed at the right places in the opponent’s heart or mental state. Entire nations would crumble. And so it would be, that if John started asking questions about Sherlock’s past- which was a natural reaction, of course, John was not to be blamed in this- Sherlock was not sure what would happen.

He had learnt at a young age (far too young, some would say) to keep his emotions locked away in a corner of his mind. Mycroft would appear the same, except for the fact that Sherlock was convinced that his brother had been blessed by being born without emotions at all. Unfortunately for Sherlock, it always took him a great deal of effort to be totally unaffected in particularly stressful situations. If his Turning was not stressful, then there was nothing in the world to fit the description of the word.

Which was why he’d hidden all those memories away, thrown them in a corner of his mind palace and had never even thought of venturing near. But if John asked questions, whether or not Sherlock deigned to reply, those memories would start to leak out.

‘’Opening the floodgates’’, so to speak.

Sherlock wasn’t even sure of what had happened himself, anymore. As such, he couldn’t be sure of his reactions. This entire mental process took about a minute, thoughts flashing and whirling at lightning speed in the vampire’s mind. Need for tea forgotten, he stood swiftly (when had he sat down? It didn’t matter) and decided he had to deal with the situation calmly. He would talk to John. After all, their intake of alcohol had been quite high the previous night, there was a chance that John would not recall much. In which case, there would be no reason for him to ask anything, no reason for Sherlock to panic.

Sherlock calmly started walking up the stairs, realising that he was probably overreacting, but also quite certain that he would do _anything_ not to relive that time of his life again, even if it were through a few simple questions.

*****

“Good evening, Ms. Adler,” said a calm, cool voice. The only distinct feature of which was the slight Irish lilt to it, and the way it sent shivers down the spine of anyone who heard. The man himself was seated in the shadows of the deliberately half-lit room. Apart from his vague silhouette, none of his features could be distinguished.

“Good evening, Mister… ‘M’”? Irene made her intention to know more about the man than the single letter quite clear in her tone, and yet was disappointed, as the man said nothing to help her in that aspect. She had found, a week previously, a letter addressed to her in her desk drawer at home. The letter bore a peculiar seal, what appeared to be a spider standing on roses, and a few curious figures Irene had not been able to make out. It had contained a few documents, and a picture or two, and a polite request to stand outside her door on a particular date, at 7pm . She was to wait for a cab, and get in if the driver was wearing a top hat with a red ribbon tied around the middle, and not breathe a word of it to anyone. She would have dismissed the whole idea as a hoax, or pure ridiculousness, if it weren’t for the fact that the documents and pictures proved that the ‘M’ who had written it to her could ruin her completely, and quite easily.

“I assume you have realized my reasons for arranging this meeting?” The man clearly wished to get straight to the point, which suited Irene. Then again, what pleasantries would have been exchanged between two such individuals?

“Naturally. But you will pardon me if I ask you to make yourself clear, for if I am wrong it would risk a great deal for us both.”

The man made a vague noise of approval. “Of course. Allow me to explain in full. You are here this evening because I am aware that in your family tree there have been a number of- interesting, I should say- individuals, including one Ophelia Arathorn. You are with me so far, I presume.”

Irene, upon whose face shone light from a lamp strategically placed, nodded, knowing full well the man could see her.

“Let’s not beat about the bush, then. You are surely aware that Ophelia was a witch, and that many of her descendants were, as well. You yourself do not practice the art, but are aware of its many intricacies, and its working in general. Yes?” Irene nodded once again.

There was a slight pause, and the silhouette of the man leaned forward. His face was still in shadows, but his voice seemed much closer, when he spoke, making the hairs on the back of Irene’s neck stand on end. In an eerily excited voice that made her fear for those involved, he asked, “Tell me, Ms. Adler, have you ever heard of one Sherlock Holmes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we're finally getting into the main plot! I hope you enjoyed that, I have to thank my dear friend Sankalpa for editing this for me, as my usual beta reader aconsultinghufflepuff is extremely busy at the moment. Please review!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, my dear readers! So here's another chapter, finally, and I hope you all like it. Do review! :D  
> I'd like to thank my friend Sara for editing this for me, and who, I must say, rather made it quite a bit better.

John had dreamt up the whole thing. He was sure of it. Well, maybe not the whole thing. They’d certainly gotten drunk and then stumbled home, and talked about something- something to do with a book, but he wasn’t sure. There was _no way_ that they had-

When Sherlock had first come up, demanding to know what on earth had happened between them when their brain cells had been incapacitated, John had almost gone into a panic. He was quite glad when Sherlock accepted his vague responses and then dropped the matter. Yes. That was good. They would never bring it up, never talk about, and surely Sherlock had forgotten the whole thing by now. It was all done with and that was exactly what John had wanted.

But was it?

At the risk of sounding like a typical romantic cliché, John wasn’t quite sure that now the matter was in fact dropped, he was fully satisfied. He couldn’t help but wonder, what would have discussed it the morning after. What if they had realized that what had happened hadn't been brought on by the alcohol robbing them of their senses, but by something more- _true_?

No. This was all mere speculation. John, much like optimistic heroine who clings on with a pathetic desperation to the idea of true love, was fantasizing about things that just couldn't be . It was better to push the instance out of his mind, and move on with his life. For reasons he couldn't quite fathom, this thought upset him. To think that he had come so close to what he really wanted, to think _that he and Sherlock had_ _actually_ -

“John, stop whatever ridiculous train of thought you’re embarking on." Sherlock’s deep voice caused him to return to the present, where he found himself seated in an armchair by the fire. Sherlock was sitting across from him, looking in parts amused, irritated, and bored.

"As you keep trying to convince yourself, it is rather pointless to keep thinking about it.”

“You couldn’t possibly know what I was thinking about.” The man might be a genius and a vampire, but surely he couldn’t read minds as well? John wasn’t sure. He hoped not.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, John, I cannot read your mind, and nor can any vampire.”

John raised an eyebrow. “You realize you don’t make a very convincing case when, the moment after I wonder if you can hear my thoughts, you say you can’t, as though you're responding.”

“That was obvious from the way you frowned suspiciously at me, not to mention it was the next conclusion you would jump to.” Sherlock sighed, settling back in his chair. “You’re all so predictable, really. Quite dull, in fact.”

John chuckled. “Alright then. What about before? When you told me that whatever I was thinking was pointless?”

“Your posture gives away what you’re thinking most of the time. You kept tensing and relaxing, clearly trying to shake away something annoying that your brain keeps throwing at you, trying to reason with yourself by telling yourself it’s not an issue that’s worth your time and effort, while at the same time trying not to panic about it. It isn’t, though.” Sherlock sat up a little straighter, and continued, “Whatever it is, John, I suggest you let it go. There really is no use in getting worked up about trivial things.”

John smiled at him. Sherlock was right, of course. “So what is this case you were telling me about? Something to do with a meeting?”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally. “Yes. A very important meeting, between two very important people,” he drawled. “Not important in the conventional sense. Not people who would make major news amongst the general public. But in their own, niches, shall we say, they are very prominent.”

John frowned. “That’s all very well, but how do they affect us and our case?”

Sherlock shot him a sly grin. “That, John, is exactly what we must find out.”

*****

“You are aware that house-breaking is illegal, yes?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, we’re not going to break in.” Sherlock’s impatient voice replied.

John sighed. “Which means, of course, that we’re going to do something just as morally dubious but you’re confident that no one will realise and so technically, it’s legal.”

Sherlock flashed a smile at him. “Bravo, John, I’m glad to see you’re catching on,” he said, as though John was a child who’d solved an arithmetic problem all on his own for the first time. John rolled his eyes.

They were currently in Sussex, and standing across the street from a large and overbearing house, trying to look inconspicuous and not at all as though they were discussing how to break into it (or whatever term Sherlock preferred).

“I’ve got it!” said Sherlock brightly. John sighed. He was sure that whatever Sherlock had come up with would not be to John’s liking at all, and yet they both knew the doctor would go along with it anyway.

“Alright, what do you want me to do this time?” John asked, resigned. Sherlock looked at him and grinned.

“Come now, John, no need to look so put out. I rather think you’ll enjoy this.”

John raised an eyebrow, doubtful of this claim. “We’ll see about that. Out with it.”

Sherlock’s grin seemed to stretch even wider. “Punch me in the face.”

John stared at him a moment, unsure if he’d heard right. “Punch you in the face?”

“Yes, John, that’s what I said. I know you must have wanted to many times during your acquaintance with me, so here’s your chance. Punch. Me. In the face.”

John blinked. Then, thinking that when one was presented, no _offered,_ such an opportunity, it would do well to take it, he swung.

Sherlock staggered back, clutching his face. “Well. That was- quite more forceful than I expected.”

“Surprised?” asked John, grinning. Sherlock’s lips twitched.

“Impressed,” he answered. He then turned and set off towards the house, John following him.

He stopped behind Sherlock, who had raised the doorknocker and brought it down against the old wood of the door three times, before stepping back. A few moments later, The door was opened by a short, bored looking woman who, by her costume, was clearly a lady’s maid.

“May I help you gentlemen?” she asked.

Sherlock stepped forward, affecting an injured and desperate look. John marveled at Sherlock’s acting in times like this. Not only did he appear to be in genuine pain, he had also managed to hide his normal confident and overbearing demeanor, making himself seem meek and timid instead. “Yes, if you’d be so kind. I- I was just attacked by some ruffians just now, and if it weren’t for this gentleman here I might have been gravely injured. I was wondering if you would allow me to wash up in your house, and then be on my way?” he asked, his voice trembling.

The maid hesitated. “I’m not quite sure-“

John stepped forward. “We won’t be a moment, ma’am. I’m a doctor, and I think it best if the gentleman clean up as soon as possible. To avoid infection and all, see,” he said, putting on his best authoritative tone of voice.

The maid didn’t look convinced. “I’m afraid I must ask the lady of the house before I let you gentlemen inside,” she said.

Sherlock nodded. “Oh please do, Miss. And quickly, if you will. I’m not entirely sure they won’t return.” He gave a nervous glance about him as he spoke, and John had to hide a smile. The stage had lost a truly fine actor when Sherlock had decided to become a detective. Or perhaps he’d once been an actor, in a previous century? There was still so much about the man he didn’t know. John made a mental addition to his ever-growing list of things he wanted to ask the detective.

They stood together in silence for a while, waiting for the maid to return. She did after a minute or two, and opened the door wider, beckoning them in. “The washroom is down that hallway, Sir,” she said, pointing. “And my Lady asks that you join her in the sitting room once you’ve finished. She was, naturally, concerned about the presence of such hooligans in this area, and wishes to have a word with you.”

Sherlock smiled at her, his mouth stretching wide in a bright manner that did not reach his eyes. “Of course,” he said. “Thank you ever so much. I will go and wash up, and perhaps the good doctor would follow you into the sitting room?”

“Of course, Sir. It’s right this way, doctor.” As Sherlock set off, the maid led John into a large, well-lit room. It had large French windows, and a posh but cosy-looking arrangement of armchairs in the centre, all clustered around a small coffee table.

“If you would wait here, Ms. Norton would be with you in just a moment,” the maid said, and left without a backward glance. John sat down in one of the chairs and looked about the room. There was a fireplace in one corner, with a mirror hung on the wall above it. There were many lamps, at least one on each wall. The carpet was a rich, dark red. As John stared at it, he thought it would do a marvelous job of hiding bloodstains. He was reflecting on what it meant that he would think such a thing, and in the process of deciding that he just didn’t care anymore, when he heard footsteps. He looked up, expecting Ms. Norton, but instead it was Sherlock, dabbing at his face with a handkerchief.

“The house is rather unremarkable,” he said as he sat down next to John. “Posh, of course, as one would expect a house of this lady’s standing to be. Nothing out of the ordinary, however.” He sighed, clearly disappointed.

John smiled at him. “Perhaps you just didn’t look very thoroughly. You were gone hardly more than five minutes.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave John his typical ‘don’t-question-me-I-am-Sherlock-Holmes-and-how-dare-you-doubt-me’ look. John chuckled.

“Seriously, though, Sherlock. What are we doing here? What’s so important about this Ms.Norton?”

Sherlock smiled. “That, my dear John, is the question. What _is_ so important about Ms.Norton? She is twenty-five years old, comes from a well-off and honourable family, enjoys reading, riding, and occasionally sings in those elitist clubs such as the ones my brother pretends to enjoy frequenting. She has no major vices, at least, none that she cannot hide extremely well, has a few friends of much the same background as herself, and all in all seems completely ordinary in every way. Dull. Yet-“ he leaned closer to John, lowering his voice.

“Yet, my brother has multiple tabs on her which he has taken great pains to hide from me, and which I managed to discover with great difficulty. You know how lazy Mycroft is, how little he cares about the lives of such mundane people. Why would he go to such lengths to monitor a woman whom, by all accounts, seems perfectly harmless? Why would he wish to hide this from me particularly? Mycroft usually does not bother attempting to hide secrets related to his work from me, he knows I care little about such things. Yet he _did not_ want me to know about Ms.Norton, and he made several, and admittedly amusing, attempts to stop me from coming to London.”

John blinked. “That’s why we’re here? Because your brother decided to stalk someone in secret?” This seemed a bit far-fetched, even for Sherlock.

The detective made an impatient noise. “No, John! Think! You are aware of Mycroft’s position, this is more than mere ‘stalking’! He has never before imposed such a high level of surveillance on anyone, other than, perhaps, me. There’s more to this, we just don’t know it yet, and hence we are here to find out. Also, there is another suspicious thing about Ms.Norton. Last week, she went to a meeting, which in itself is not cause for alarm, but my sources have led me to believe it was not a mere exchange of simple pleasantries over tea. It was scheduled, from what I could find out, by a man who would normally have no reason to meet with her, and certainly not under those conditions. I have my suspicions about the topic of discussion, and we are here to confirm it.” Sherlock stopped, looking up expectantly at the doorway. Just a moment later, John heard the footsteps that the vampire’s keen ears had picked up before his own.

This time, it was a lady, who could certainly not be any other than Ms.Norton. She was tall, with dark hair and well-defined features. She was quite beautiful, and John thought for a second that she looked rather like Sherlock.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said. She sat down opposite them and smiled. “I was so sorry to hear what had happened, Mr. Holmes. Rather lucky that Dr.Watson was present to save the day, wasn’t it?”

John grew pale. They hadn’t given their names at the door, had they? Suddenly, he felt like there was indeed a very good reason that they were investigating this woman.

Sherlock, on the other hand, broke out into a grin at her words, and put his handkerchief away. “Well, then, Ms. Adler, it seems there’s no need for pretenses amongst us, and we may speak frankly. I was hoping for a bit of fun, but I suppose it’s just as well.”

“Wait- Adler? I thought her name was Norton?” This was the part that John didn’t like so much when they were solving cases. He didn’t like it being two steps behind everyone else in the room. Unfortunately, this was almost always the case.

She laughed. “One of my many aliases, Doctor Watson,” she smiled. “It seems Mr. Holmes here has done his research. My real name is Irene Adler.”

“Enough with the pleasantries, please, Ms. Adler. If you know who I am then you surely know why I’m here,” Sherlock’s impatient voice cut in.

Irene looked over at him, still grinning. “I’m afraid I don’t, actually. Not really. There are many reasons as to why you’d want to see me, so I’m not certain which of them brings you here today.” She smiled sweetly at them.

Sherlock sat for a moment, clearly assessing her with his keen eyes. “You found a note, about a week ago, telling you to meet a man in a specified location. Both the man and the situation in which you met him are of great intrigue to me, so if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to know the details.”

Irene sat and studied them for a moment. Sherlock glared back at her, waiting. When she spoke the traces of playfulness were all gone. “I don’t know much about him myself,” she admitted. “People almost never see him, he never approaches people in person. I was surprised when he came to meet me.”

Sherlock raised a skeptic eyebrow. “You expect me to believe that a woman such as yourself has found out nothing?”

Irene flashed her teeth briefly at this, and continued, “One does hear things. Interesting things, but things that don’t bode well for those who get in his way.”

Sherlock scoffed. “For God’s sake, just one man couldn’t possibly be so powerful as to have the most of the modern world in his grasp, nor instill such a strong fear in people who don’t even know his name-“

“But that’s just it,” said Irene. “From what I hear, this man isn’t a man at all. He’s a spider. A spider in the centre of a web with a thousand strings, and he knows precisely how each and every one of them dances.” She watched them intently, her voice low and serious. “He’s almost trapped you now, Mr. Holmes. And the more you struggle, the more tighter his grasp gets around you.”

“Unless I find a way to cut myself free,” countered Sherlock. “Or better yet, not get trapped at all.”

Irene smiled grimly. “I wish you the best of luck with that, Mr. Holmes. You seem like fun, perhaps you’re clever enough to get out of this. And you have the brave Dr. Watson by your side, of course,” she turned to John for the first time since she sat down, the corners of her eyes tilting up almost amusedly.

John, for his part, had decided he’d had enough of this. These pointless mind games weren’t getting them anywhere anyway.

“Right. Well, ta very much, Ms. Norton or Adler or whatever you call yourself,” he said gruffly, standing up. “If that’s all you can tell us, then we’ll be leaving now, won’t we Sherlock?” He gave the detective a pointed look. Sherlock looked like he wanted to protest, but then evidently realized that John was in no mood to be argued with, and stood up.

“Yes, thank you, Ms. Adler. This has been.. enlightening.” He reached for his coat, and swept out of the room in his typical fashion, having gotten the last word. John rolled his eyes, gave Irene a final glare, and made to follow.

“Dr. Watson,” Irene’s voice called out. He stopped and turned, wondering what she could possibly have to say to him.

“Take care of him,” she said. John sighed. Sherlock was a bloody vampire, he could take care of himself.

Irene hadn’t finished, however. “I know you will, though, won’t you? You evidently care quite a bit.” She grinned cheekily at him, and John frowned. Yes, he did care, Sherlock was his friend, but the mischievous gleam in Irene’s eyes suggested something a bit less innocent, and John, thinking of recent events (and his recent thoughts), found himself fighting to keep a straight face.

Some of his internal struggle must have showed on his face, however, as Irene laughed. “Yes, if I had to hit such a pretty face, I’d avoid his mouth too.” John might have actually blushed at this, but before he could come up with a retort, Irene had flashed a smile his way and sauntered out of the room.

Taking a moment to compose himself, and cursing everything that came to mind (which included Sherlock, Irene, himself, this Mystery Man, Sherlock, and a portrait in a far corner that seemed to be mocking him), he left to catch up with the vampire, who said nothing about John’s delay, and simply informed him they’d be taking the next train back to London.

*****

On the train, John’s thoughts kept straying. He kept glancing at the man sitting opposite, staring out the window, apparently oblivious to John’s inner turmoil. He couldn’t deny his feelings, he couldn’t deny his own memory. What had happened, had happened. The question was, if it could happen when they had both taken leave of their senses, could it happen when they were both fully sober and aware of their surroundings?

Sherlock was centuries old. While certain..progress.. had been made, the situation was far from ideal now in the year 1900, and things had been much worse in Sherlock’s original time. What if the man still held on to those values? What if he scoffed and scorned, and turned John away? John was quite sure that Sherlock wouldn’t harm him physically (the first fear of many from a vampire would naturally be physical assault and bodily harm, but for some reason John was sure that he was safe from having his throat ripped out), but he knew as well as anyone that there were more ways to damage a person. The doctor had long ago come to terms with who he was and what he liked, but who knew how a vampire thought? Was Sherlock even capable of reciprocating? There were a million reasons this could go very, very wrong. (John didn’t even want to think about what Mycroft would say).

On the other hand, Sherlock had expressed views that were more progressed than even modern society’s standards, and had on multiple occasions expressed his contempt for the way people thought and acted during his time. Also, if John could get…certain _experiences_.. in his forty years, then surely Sherlock, with his 600+ years, would be no stranger to such ideas? Men had been _involved_ with other men for thousands of years. Perhaps Sherlock would be willing, even enthusiastic, if John told him the truth?

One thing was for sure, that there was no way to know for sure unless he took a risk and spoke up. They had become quite good friends, after all, and developed a sort of mutual trust. There was a possibility that all this wouldn’t end in disaster.

*****

“You’re tense. You’ve been worrying about something all day.”

John sighed. He should have realized that Sherlock would notice. They'd barely gotten through the door, and the detective was already accosting him.

“It’s nothing, I’m fine.” He tried to sound as nonchalant as possible, but was sure that Sherlock saw right through it.

“No you’re not. Tell me what’s bothering you.” Sherlock looked at him expectantly.

“No. Why do you care, anyway?” John wasn’t ready to tell Sherlock yet. “You didn’t tell me what you were so riled up about, a few days ago.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I wasn’t aware that this was a give and take, John. Forgive me for expressing concern, I will endeavour to avoid it in the future.” He swirled around (the dramatic _git_ ), and John suddenly realized what he had to do, and that it was now or never.

“Sherlock,” John cut in, watching the man stop abruptly at John’s voice. They were both nervous, clearly, and what happened in the next few moments might well define their entire future together. “Sherlock, I think we kissed that night.” He said it quietly, unsure how Sherlock would react.

Sherlock was so still it seemed as though he hadn’t heard. John wasn’t even sure the man was breathing (did vampires need to breathe? John had never thought to ask. Suddenly it seemed very important. No, wait, it wasn’t. There would be plenty of time to find that out later). Finally, after a long stretch of time that probably amounted to the longest five seconds of John’s life, Sherlock spoke. “Are you quite sure, John? You might be mistaken.” Sherlock’s voice seemed steady, but John could detect the underlying tremor.

“No. No, I’m quite sure I’m not. Sherlock, we _kissed_.”

“What-what does that matter now?” Sherlock’s voice was low. “If you are suggesting that, after all we’ve been through, the fact that I’m a vampire, the way I forced you to stay with me in that godforsaken castle, if after all that, a _kiss_ is the final straw, then-“

John decided to take a leap of faith, and hoped that Sherlock would join him. He took a deep breath, and before Sherlock could say anything more, said, “I’m suggesting that we do it again, sober this time so we’ll remember it properly.” Oh God. He hadn’t just said that, had he? Now Sherlock was going to be disgusted, he might even be mad, oh Lord-

“John?” Sherlock was looking at him in surprise. “I- are you serious?” Yes, he’d done it now. _Good for you, Watson,_ thought John to himself. _Now he’s definitely repulsed. You just had to open your mouth, you couldn’t wait until you were sure of things, and now you’ve blown it._

“Um. Yes.” His throat felt very dry, but he’d have to go to the kitchen to get water, and he knew he couldn’t leave now.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment more, and then- to John’s utter disbelief- a small smile stretched across his face, genuinely happy and slightly awed. “If you’re sure, then I’d very much like to.”

John balked. “Yes, of course I’m sure, I’m very sure, quite sure, completely sure that I’d like very much to kiss you right now.”

Sherlock grinned. “Go ahead, then.”

“Um, yes. I will. Yes. I-“

Sherlock cut him off by stepping forward and kissing him. The vampire’s lips were soft, and his body warmer than John had been expecting, being but a degree or two cooler than a normal human’s. His rich clothes of fur and silk and velvet felt lovely against John’s hands, and he tangled his fingers in them, pulling Sherlock closer. Sherlock in turn wrapped his arms around John, settling his hands in the middle of John’s back. The kiss was chaste and sweet and gentle, and although John would certainly have loved for it to be filthier, it was perfect. They’d have plenty of opportunities in the future for _more_ anyway. They broke apart naturally, after about 5 seconds, and stood there together. They weren’t breathless, and John was sure his heart wasn’t racing, (well, perhaps his pulse was elevated, just a little bit) but both felt warm and content with the world.

“We should have done this ages ago,” John breathed. He felt slightly overwhelmed. All felt _right_ somehow. As though (again, at the risk of sounding too much like a romantic cliché) this was always meant to be.

“Agreed,” answered Sherlock, his voice still low.

John looked up at him. “I honestly thought this was what you were so worked up about, a few days ago.”

Sherlock looked slightly embarrassed. “Er, no, actually. And to you it might seem slightly trivial, but it meant a great deal to me, at the time. Even now, although in light of.. recent events, perhaps that was not the most important thing of that evening.”

John chuckled. “Alright, you mad genius. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. I want you to know, that you can always talk to me, if you want to. You know that, yes?”

Sherlock looked at him, and nodded. “Thank you. Now, John,” Sherlock whispered John’s name, pitching his voice in a low tone that enveloped John in a warm haze. “If you aren’t going to say anything important, I have some other ideas on what we might use our mouths for right now.”

John grinned. He leaned impossibly closer, stopping when their lips were just a hair’s breadth apart, and whispered back, “ Oh really? And what might those ideas be?”

Sherlock cupped his hands around John’s neck and on the back of his head and closed the distance between them. John smiled against Sherlock’s lips. “Oh, this is a brilliant idea. That’s why you’re the genius detective, after all, isn’t it?”

“Stop _talking,”_ said Sherlock, almost whining as he cupped his hand around the back of John’s head and pulled him in for another kiss. John hummed in approval, enjoying the feel of Sherlock, warm and soft against him, and knowing, somehow, that the future would bring many more evenings like this, just the two of them together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES FINALLY THEY KISS!! I have to admit, when I first started writing this fic, I'd had the main plot all figured out, but not the romance. I'd been thinking they'd get together by chapter 6. Well, better late than never.  
> Also, I took some liberties with Irene's address here, I know she doesn't live in Sussex, but there's the whole tie-up with that cottage Holmes owns in the books, so I have this one headcanon where they're neighbours after Holmes (and Watson) move out of the city. ^.^  
>  I hope you liked it!  
> Follow me on tumblr, my url is dragons-and-pandas. My inbox is always open, feel free to say hi! :D


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